Twelve Tunics
by Crookneck
Summary: Twelve stories (word scribbles?) accounting for just a dozen of the many, many tunic demises/escapes that Elrond has left in his wake. This wonderful plot bunny was adopted from SerenLyall. Genres will run amuck! Complete.
1. Wild Things

**1: Wild Things **

Genre: Adventure? Silly? Rating: One or two mild curses are dropped.

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_S.A 1002_

_Summer_

It was a popular belief during the elder days that the High King, Ereinion Gil-galad, was fearless. Elrond was privileged to know that the king was only _nearly _fearless. Gil-galad would face down any number of orcs without a second thought, or mountain trolls, goblins, wraiths and even angry cooks wielding rolling pins.

A scream pierced the air.

Gil-galad and Elrond halted their steeds and stiffened, watching and listening. The noise had been primal, panicked, and had caught them completely off-guard. The day had been unassuming and warm, sunny above the canopy of maple that they rode under. It was dry, and dust from the road trailed behind them in motes of light. They were nearing Harlond, having left the havens before the sun had risen that morning, and Elrond was just beginning to lament how very dull the whole journey would no doubt be.

More painful sounds came to his ears, and he wasn't sure this was the kind of excitement he'd been hoping for.

Gil-galad urged his horse forward first and Elrond followed, further down the road, tracking the noises. Elrond found himself fervently hoping that whatever was making the noise was not (or had not been) one of the free people, though he was already pitying whatever it was, man or beast. They reached a point where the road seemed to pass by the origin of the wailing, and here they wordlessly dismounted and left their horses to follow a thin trail leading off into the forest. At this point the noises quieted and soon they had stopped altogether.

"We're too late," Gil-galad muttered sadly, though he kept pushing through the brush that bordered the trail, in the vain hope that it would lead straight to what had been making the awful sounds.

"What if this is a trap?" wondered Elrond suddenly, and paused. Gil-galad paused too, but only to turn and give him a stinkeye.

"My friend, you worry too much."

"Worrying makes up the majority of my job."

"I know," said the king, pointedly.

"_Somebody _has to," protested Elrond through his teeth. "And right now I am the only one around to worry that you might not make it to your Council in Harlond because we were foolish enough to follow a strange noise off the road and into the woods."

"Yet," said Gil-galad, and turned to continue down the path, "if we did not investigate, both of our consciences would be vexed for eternity, never knowing if we had passed up the opportunity to save a life."

Elrond could do nothing in response but trace his king's footsteps and grumble quietly about stubborn High Elves. His hand rested on the hilt of his hunting knife and he very much regretted not having his sword. He knew Gil-galad's only weapon was also a knife. There was little in the land between the havens and Harlond that would warrant drawing a weapon. He hoped.

Something not far ahead of them rustled violently and Gil-galad paused, listening. When the rustling ceased he continued on, taking cautious, silent footsteps. Looking up at the trees, Elrond could see there was a natural clearing in the woods ahead of them, and as they neared it he caught Gil-galad's shoulder, slowing him further. Another frantic explosion ahead, but it hadn't moved any closer or farther away, which Elrond found to be both a relief as well as highly suspicious.

As they neared the edge of the woods Elrond caught a faint musk in the air. They both dropped to a crouch for the last distance and came forward to peer into the clearing.

Not twenty yards away, the grass had been stained crimson within a fair diameter. In the center of the red area was a mass of curved iron, sharp teeth, and black and grey fur that had been mottled with blood. The mass turned its head to them, caught them in its beady-eyed stare, and hissed loud and low.

"Well," said Gil-galad wryly, "You were right. It was a trap."

Elrond stood, and Gil-galad rose as well. They exchanged uncertain glances and then turned again to watch the beast.

It was a badger, and though Elrond had seen few badgers in his life, he was willing to bet this was the angriest one he would ever set eyes on. It had been wounded badly by the trap – it looked as if the teeth of the trap had come down flush on top of its shoulders – but, being a badger, it seemed more wrathful than anything else. Two crude arrows bit into its back, but hung shallow from the skin and fur, as if shot from a weak bow. He narrowed his eyes. The sight of the arrows caused a small flame of Elrond's own anger to leap within him.

"There is another here," murmured Gil-galad, and Elrond drew his attention from the animal to realize that, yes, they were not alone. Somebody else watched this spectacle. His gaze went up into the masses of leaves above them, and picked up the sound of breathing, and the acrid smell of Man mingled with the musk of the badger. "Oi!" Gil-galad shouted, stepping out into the clearing. Elrond flinched and followed him close, half-expecting to be shot through with an arrow himself.

"Oi," Gil-galad repeated, now staring fixedly into a spot in the canopy above them. "You there, lurking in the leaves. Is this your trap?"

No answer was forthcoming at first, but after a moment the branches shifted, some early leaves were shaken free, and a form dropped to the ground with a heavy _whump_. Elrond's hand tensed on his blade but Gil-galad stayed his hand. The man that now straightened in front of them did indeed have a bow strung to his back and a small quiver, but they could tell immediately that he was not a warrior by any means. His face was pinched, tiny eyes squinted, mouth and nose covered with a stringy sort of fuzz.

"What of it?" he asked, bristling. "What's it to two elves?"

"What did you set this trap for?"

"For to catch dinner for meself, of course."

"You would eat badger?" asked the king, puzzled.

"No! Filthy fiends, their flesh'll poison a man. A rabbit'd been nice. Turkey. A little deer. This damn thing's been scarin' away all the game in the area with its racket."

"And yet you sit and watch it happen."

"Ain't anything else to do! Can't kill it with arrows, I already tried, see? Their skin's tougher than tempered steel, I tell ya. Just gotta wait till it dies, then I'll throw it off and reset. Waste of time," the hunter spat, and eyed the animal.

Gil-galad half-turned to Elrond, making no attempt to hide his disgust. Elrond shook his head in disbelief, though truthfully he was not so surprised to hear such words.

"Sucker's just too damn big," the man continued. "Can't kill it, can't get close enough."

"You're a coward," Gil-galad said, "to stand by and watch this suffering."

"I s'pose you think you're going to do the deed then," scoffed the man. "Don't forget whose trap that is."

"Perhaps you should not forget whose kingdom you are in," Elrond said, unable to hold his temper. "You speak to Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of Lindon."

"Right," affirmed Gil-galad. "And I decree this cruel and unnecessary causation of suffering."

Elrond bit his tongue, trying not to smile. The king rarely brought out such frilly jargon in court. Leave it to him to use it in the face of one cowardly man in the woods. Said man was shocked into silence for just a moment, before letting an ugly sneer lumber across his features.

"… Fine, _sir_. I'm an honest woodsman and what happens in the rich halls of the elves don't concern me. If you want to go nudge that thing out of its misery, go ahead, but it's your face, not mine." Elrond wanted to tell the man how lucky he was that Gil-galad was not one to enforce the codes of hierarchy. By rights the king could have this man's head for impudence. Instead Gil-galad merely glared – a terrible enough thing to behold – and then turned once more to Elrond, and cleared his throat.

"Do you suppose – "

"You want me to do it," Elrond said, cutting him off. Being so close to the king held certain freedoms from discretion. Gil-galad dithered.

"_Well_, it does not seem wise to – "

"Your fears are not unknown to me," Elrond said bluntly. He'd gathered, in the past few hundred years, that one of the only things that Gil-galad held any fear of was wild beasts. It had puzzled Elrond to no end until he'd heard the king comment about how mysterious were the minds of those who were not aware of free will, and could not be corrupted by evil nor sacrifice themselves for the greater good. It was not the potential of injury that made the king hesitate; it was a matter of mentality, facing a wild being so very different than any of the free people.

"Let us both approach," Gil-galad said reasonably, "to see what can be done." Elrond took a breath and turned to the trap, taking several steps forward, Gil-galad close behind. The badger hissed mightily, and Elrond hesitated.

"That _is _a massive badger," he muttered. Gil-galad poked him in the back, and he took several more steps, until he was just outside of the crimson circle it had created. "A very angry, very massive badger," he said. It had lowered its chin to the ground as if ready to strike, hissing and trying to turn completely to face them straight. The man had been right about badger skin; it was tough. It didn't look as if the trap had chewed through anything vital, but the beast was certainly stuck fast and hard.

"I heard badgers can kill wolves," the man called to them. "Heard they're the toughest beasts ever set foot on land."

"Is that true?" Gil-galad murmured in an undertone.

"It has been recorded in the writings of the Forodwaith," replied Elrond softly, still staring at the beast, "that badgers have been known to attack wolves in order to appropriate their kills. They are remarkable combatants."

"Oh."

"I think I can free it."

"What?"

"Its wounds are not mortal, there is no need to kill it."

"You will get yourself mauled."

"I will not. Though I do regret not bringing armor." With that, Elrond came as close to the beast as he dared, drawing his knife, vaguely aware that Gil-galad had backed up several steps. He could see the spring to the side of the trap. If he could snap the spring and lift the jaw, the creature would be free to go. His eyes alit on the arrows still protruding from the skin, and his hands, of their own accord, started to reach to remove them – they would be a painful burden.

The badger snarled and tried to slash his hand away with its claws. It was held fast, though, and could maneuver very little. Elrond yanked them out quickly and the beast did not seem to notice.

"What are you doing?" the man cried shrilly. "Are you setting it free?" When he didn't get a response, he said, "That's a nasty, dangerous, dumb beast! It doesn't even know you're trying to help it!"

Elrond knelt next to the trap, carefully keeping a distance between him and the snapping teeth, and started to poke at the spring. The low growl of the badger crawled up an octave until it was more of a thin whine, and it continued to eye his every move. In the background he heard the man talking, saying something about silly elves and their silly sensitivities. Gil-galad responded with something – Elrond didn't catch it – but the man didn't reply. Elrond wondered what he would do if he actually managed to spring this animal – what would keep it from attacking him?

He sighed, frustrated. The way this trap had rusted over, he wouldn't have to worry about that. The spring was hopelessly crusted to the base, there was no way his knife would be able to –

_Snap._ _Clack._

Not only had the spring snapped to bits, but the jaws had sprung apart without any further assistance.

The badger let out a surprised snarl as the jaws ripped free of its fur and flesh, and it took advantage of its renewed autonomy by leaping square into Elrond's chest, claws flailing, teeth flashing. Elrond, whose arms had flown instinctively to cover his face, had no time to cry out in surprise, and was knocked backwards from his kneeling position to land on his back. He heard Gil-galad shout, but mostly his senses were concerned with the snarling, spitting face that hung not a foot from his own, and the long, sharp claws that buried themselves into his tunic and pierced his torso.

Before he could gather his wits enough to reach for his knife, and before Gil-galad could come forward with his own blade, the thing had sprung off, leaving Elrond winded but intact. It bounded away much more quickly than Elrond would have expected such a heavy beast to be able to move, especially given its injuries, but it was gone within a handful of seconds, entering back into its own haunts.

Gil-galad held out a hand for Elrond. He took it and let the king draw him to his feet.

"That's great," said the hunter, "That's just great. Lettin' it free. Coulda killed it but no, you did the _right _thing. The _noble _thing. The elf thing, huh? Care for all life, even the flea-bitten, rabid, dangerous life. Let me tell you, that'll be twelve less rabbits on my table this winter."

A dozen waspish replies crowded Elrond's mind, but his diaphragm was only just starting to work again.

"Look, it ripped up your shirt and ran away. That's the thanks you get," scoffed the man. "It thinks it's escaping certain death! It doesn't even know you helped it!"

"That wasn't exactly the point," Elrond replied, and looked mournfully down at his ruined tunic. It was stained with blood front and back – he hoped it was mostly badger blood – and had a series of little holes down the front where the badger's claws had done their work. "This was one of my nice ones, too," he sighed to himself.

"Are you hurt?" asked Gil-galad.

"I'm fine."

"Let us take our leave of the abrasion of his voice, then."

The man behind them had fallen into a fit of quiet curses as he crouched by his broken trap, and he did not seem to notice or care when Gil-galad led the way back to the trail and into the woods towards the road.

"I am impressed, Elrond. I did not know you had skills dealing with wild beasts."

"You are mistaken, my lord. I have no such skills. To approach a wounded badger is unadulterated inanity and as much as I am loath to admit it, the man was right. I am lucky to have gotten away with only a ruined tunic."

They came out of the woods and back onto the road, where their horses waited serenely, browsing the sedges and grasses.

"Do you have an extra?" Gil-galad asked as he reached to stroke his grey horse's neck.

"An extra what?" asked Elrond, who likewise greeted his horse.

"Tunic."

"No, of course not. We will be back at the havens before midday tomorrow, I had not expected I would need one."

"Tsk. You may be a loremaster and a healer," said Gil-galad, and unfastened the sack that he'd had tied loosely to his horse, "but you are still an inexperienced warrior-traveler. Always be prepared."

A mass of fabric hit Elrond in the chest. He took it in his hands and held it out in front of him. It was one of Gil-galad's silk tunics, embroidered finely with navy and gold thread. It was rather stunning, though most of Gil-galad's tunics were such. Elrond held it back to Gil-galad.

"Thank you, but I cannot be so bold as to march into Harlond wearing the finery of the high king."

"I would rather see my escort enter Harlond wearing my own tunic than one that is torn and bloody."

"Gil-galad," protested Elrond, "besides the audacity of such an action, your tunic is…" He regarded it. "Well, it's not my size."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"I am calling you barrel-chested," Elrond said tactfully. "I would look like a drowned rat."

"Nonsense. Put your jerkin on over it, nobody will notice."

"But – "

"You will make me late for the Council," Gil-galad said imperiously, and swung himself onto his horse, barely suppressing a smile. "Change, and let us get on." Gil-galad urged his horse forward at a slow walk down the road.

Elrond, glowering, removed his shredded, linen tunic and cast it to the woods. He paused to look down at himself before going to don the king's tunic, and frowned in dismay.

"I will stain your tunic red if I put it on," he called. He couldn't tell how much of the blood was the badger's and how much was his own from the badger's claws. It wasn't excessive but it would assuredly deface the fine garment.

"I have countless tunics finer than that rag," replied Gil-galad, calling over his shoulder. "Such is the burden of a king." Elrond rolled his eyes and pulled the tunic over his head before opening his bag, drawing out his jerkin, and pulling it around his torso. Hopefully it would hide any bloodstains. He mounted his horse and galloped to catch up with Gil-galad, whose mouth was set in a severe frown, and whose eyes shone with mirth.

"I know what we shall tell them when they ask why you are wearing my tunic," the king said, after a moment's contemplation.

"Don't say it," said Elrond.

"The escort saved the high king from being badgered. A tunic was lost in the process."

Elrond sighed.


	2. Shipswitch

**2: Shipswitch**

Thanks for the wonderful reviews! I might be insane to attempt this so close to the holidays, but with the support of readers it seems much easier! Although I'm pretty sure the rest of these stories are going to be exponentially shorter.

Genre: Shippy. Rating: Nothing offensive.

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_S.A 1498_

_Late Spring_

The wind was picking up his hair and sending it flying in unruly ribbons, whipping across his face, plastering itself over his eyes, binding together with other strands into surely impossible knots. His hair was very irritable. Elrond was also very irritable, though not because of his hair. He had just stepped outside of the Hall of Lindon and now faced the sea to gather his locks into one braid, which still convulsed a little in the wind, but he could at least ignore it. The wind was changing, and was fighting with itself, coming from both the northeast and the south at once. It was whipping the seas into an uneasy, confused mass, whitecaps surprising the eye and thready waves clawing at the shore. A confused sea was a sign to get out of the water and probably into a sturdy building. Elrond knew that Círdan had been working hard on the rigging of one of the boats as of late – the vessel had met upon unlikely and unfriendly shores, and had capsized and lost much of its cordage. The shipwright would be tying up loose ends right now, so to speak, but his mind, usually serene, would be in a bit of a wad in these circumstances.

Elrond had urgently wanted to talk to Círdan about a few things, delicate things – and soon – but this weather would undoubtedly prevent Círdan from truly focusing on what Elrond had to ask. Elrond's irritation sprang now from this conundrum, though he knew it was a childish worry. Nothing could be done about it. The timing was awful, but the weather had no hourglass with which to check itself within the whims of the people.

Still, he would go to Círdan. Perhaps the shipwright could use a hand. The skies darkened as he watched and he wondered if perhaps Círdan should not be convinced to come inside to wait out whatever blow the weather was about to bring down upon them. All of the other elves of the shipyards had already come inside, or watched the skies from the shelter of the open stone arches along the gallery. Elrond made his way down the path and soon walked between ships like sentinels, sails rolled and tied to the masts that waved slow in the wind. The booms, hanging at angles, pointed him on toward the docks.

The shipwright was leaning over the gunwhales of the damaged ship, elbow deep in a mass of thick roping.

"Lord Elrond," Círdan called happily, before Elrond could hail him. "What brings you down here in such ill-omened weather?" Elrond hid a roll of the eyes. He had long since given up insisting that the shipwright not call him 'lord', as he did not believe he had the right to such a title.

"I thought I might urge you to seek shelter, master shipwright," he replied, and came to a halt beneath Círdan.

"Shelter from what? 'Tis a baby of a squall. Alfinor and I have almost finished rerigging this, we only have the mainsail to do. And I have this knot to untangle."

"A mighty impressive knot, that."

"Come on up here," Círdan said, gesturing to the wooden ladder. "Lend a hand." Elrond obliged him and approached the ladder, and the silver-haired elf continued to puzzle over the knot. When Elrond had set food on deck he was amazed (but not so surprised) to see that the rope seemed to have melted into a sort of harmonious order, and Círdan now coiled it about his elbow and hand.

"Really, my friend," Círdan said, "something else brings you here. Have you something to ask me?"

"You read my mind. I have been wanting to speak with you about – "

"Here, help me move this canvas. Go on."

"… about Annatar and Eregion."

"Must you bring up so gloomy a character on an already gloomy day? Now fold the canvas over the boom, so we can fasten it. Yes." They tugged the heavy material over the broad wooden arm, and the muscles in Círdan's forearms stood out like knotted cords themselves.

"My apologies, master," Elrond said, "but something tells me that his influence is shifting Eregion's fate."

"Shifting fate? Are you quite sure you mean that? Alfinor, this is tacked! Start hauling the top up!" Círdan called up into the rigging, where, Elrond noticed, a young elf with dark hair was clambering about on the ropes; one of Círdan's many apprentices. He clung to the rope ladders with his feet wound around the cables, swaying in the building wind.

"Aye!" Alfinor called, and started to haul on the winch, cinching down the slack in the rope. The canvas began to rise in front of them, slow and majestic, catching the blustery air and billowing into Elrond's face.

"I do not know, Círdan," Elrond said, pushing away the fabric so he could see the shipwright, "that is why I come to you. I have felt ill at ease thinking of Eregion and Celebrimbor lately. We suspect something dark is moving, but – "

"I am sorry to interrupt again, my young friend, would you just hang on to that end of the boom? It will want to swing aft as Alfinor draws the sail. We will attach the halyards next, keep the gooseneck from swiveling."

"What?" asked Elrond, taking hold of the thick spar and pulling it towards the aft. Círdan was right, it _did _want to swing forward, now that the sails were being attached.

"Never mind the lingo, lord, just keep a tight hold on that. If it swings we may all loose our heads," the shipwright said, giving Elrond a wink. Elrond wasn't so sure that was far from the truth, though – the spar would swing just below head height and parallel to the ground, and from the feel of it, if Elrond were to let go, it would build up considerable momentum in no time. "Now, what were you saying?" Círdan asked, busying himself with a hitch.

"… Perhaps now is not the best time…" Elrond said through his teeth. It was clear that Círdan was not focused on the discussion, and not only was the boom pulling harder, but the angle was awkward and it was difficult to keep a firm grip. He leaned back and looked up into the rigging, hoping Alfinor was almost done. The young elf had drawn the rope through a grommet and tied a winch on the end, straining to attach another line to the end, after which Elrond imagined they could hook up the halyard, whatever that was, and then he would be able to let go –

"Ai!" cried Alfinor, and startled back, hands flying up into the lines. The thick coil of rope he had been trying to fasten had taken up too much pressure and now screamed out of its grommet. The weight of the canvas yanked it through with such force that the grommet blew out, the end came out of the winch, and the rope was sent whizzing freely through the air like an angry python. The tension on the boom reversed and now forced its way into Elrond, who pushed back mightily, seeing that Círdan, who was struggling with the swivel at the base of the mast, might indeed loose his head if the boom was released with such stress on it.

From above, Alfinor yelled a warning. Elrond could not look to see what it was, but heard a metallic scream, an ethereal _whip_ and _snap_ biting at the air above him, and then a loud, sour pain hit him across the back so sharply that his hands jerked away from the boom, which rushed back into his face. He braced against it again and bit his tongue, hoping that whatever had just happened behind him wasn't going to repeat itself.

Alfinor was struggling with the ropes at the top of the mast and Círdan was cranking down on the swivel, and within moments the boom's resolute pull was ebbing. It finally died altogether and Círdan straightened up to look at Alfinor, who was breathing hard and looking mightily embarrassed.

"My apologies," he called down to Elrond, "Are you hurt?"

A pile of more roping lay behind Elrond in a haphazard heap, the final end reaching far into the mast above. Elrond twisted his head around but couldn't see what had happened to his back. A scar of fire seemed to be burning on his skin. What he _could_ see was a shred of fabric waving cheerily in the wind.

"The kick line snapped," Alfinor explained. "I could not catch it."

"All for the better, no doubt. You would have lost a hand," Círdan said, and came towards Elrond. "Turn about, let me see." Elrond turned his back to the shipwright and felt a cool palm on his skin, which would have been a relief were it not for the fact that Círdan's hands were rougher than sharkskin. He bit back a grimace.

"Just a rope burn," Círdan said, "but your tunic is ruined. I hope it was not a favorite, the weave is completely disarticulated. She flayed you a good one."

"It was one of my better ones," Elrond muttered, turning around to face the shipwright.

"But such is life at sea," laughed Círdan. "You still have your skin. A fair sacrifice, if one asked my humble opinion. Worse things have happened on board ships between men and free-soaring ropes. Now, Alfinor, let us try to raise the sail again, but this time double those lines, hmmm?"

Elrond grudgingly took his place by the boom again. The process went smoothly and quietly, the various pieces of the ship working together in a mocking sort of accord. A few loose ends were tied up and, as rain started to hit the decks, they furled all sails and went below to ready the lines for being drawn the next day. As Alfinor busied himself with the fore of the ship's keel room, Círdan and Elrond took on the task of putting the lines in order.

"Has your question been answered, young Elrond?" asked Círdan, out of the muffled quiet beneath the patter of rain above decks. Elrond had forgotten completely that he had wanted to discuss something with Círdan, and had been focusing instead on the task at hand, and trying to ignore the growing stiffness in his back.

"My question? Did I ask one?"

"You have held one in your mind for many days."

"I suppose I have been wondering what the fate of Eregion will settle to be."

"That is not it, not quite."

Elrond fell silent in thought. Surely that had been the biggest question in his mind for longer than simply days. Kind Celebrimbor had become involved with something ill, that much Elrond could feel, but what it was, and how much it had to do with Annatar, those were unknowns. The kingdom's pulse grew thin and quick and Elrond feared for its future. Yet Círdan felt this was not his question, and Elrond had long ago learned not to doubt Círdan's words.

"Ever since Annatar slipped around Lindon," Círdan continued, eyes downcast to the ropes in his hands, "we have all had the same question. You and I and Gil-galad."

"Vaster than Eregion?"

"Yes."

"What will cause the next age to come forward?"

"Yes."

"Our question, then, has not been answered."

"Because there are none who can, I suspect. Though there are some who would try via situational prophecies, if you look for them."

"I am ignorant. Your words mean as much to me as your shipwright language. What do you mean?"

Círdan only gave him a wink, and the crowsfeet at the edges of his eyes darkened and grew into threads, then ropes. Out of the gloom in the corner of his eye a heavy spar swung forwards, growing larger and coming swifter. Elrond stumbled backwards but was stopped by a sound above him – _whip, crack_ – and he spun before the offending rope could once again flay open his shirt.

There was no rope behind him.

He released a breath and turned back to Círdan, who was still quietly winding rope, the pale light from the porthole casting a weak and murky glow upon the grey of his face. Elrond berated himself for ever having doubted the old elf's focus. Elrond had never, while in the shipwright's presence, forgotten that Círdan was much older than any elf he knew, held much more wisdom than he would ever let on, and had uncanny abilities that would surface at the strangest of moments. But still, when these abilities shone through, Elrond never failed to be caught off-guard. Sometimes he suspected that Círdan himself was caught off-guard by them, though at the moment the old elf looked serene as the morning seas.

"So your ship here is a clever one," Elrond murmured. "_If it swings, we may all loose our heads_…"

Círdan nodded, still intent on his work, and spared Elrond a glance.

"And let us watch our backs."

* * *

_A/N: I openly admit to not knowing the first thing about boats, except that they're supposed to float and the pointy bits go up._


	3. Hope Chest

**3. Hope Chest**

A/N: HAPPY HOBBIT DAY! And also a very merry Friday to you. This story is as far to the right that my cutesy-o-meter will allow me to go.

Genre: Fluff. Rating: Appropriate for everybuddy.

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_S.A 1528_

_Autumn_

This morning the halls of Lindon were not safe. _Specifically, _thought Elrond, _the halls outside of my room_. He paused in the doorway, wondering if it would not be better to stay in his study for a while yet. Assuredly he would be able to get more done shut away in his quarters than out in the open library, just a minute down the hall, what with all the rumpus. Although, after a long night spent walking and thinking, he had come back to his room in the young hours to find his door open. No doubt the raiders had thought his room to be public space. He supposed that was what locks were for.

Now he heard the invaders coming around for another go, feet scuffing the rugs that lined the cobbled floor. He ducked back into his entry and watched from the shadows as they came. First one, then another, and then a deluge of short limbs and high-pitched screams whizzed by his door. He saw that each of them carried a small structure in their hands, and they seemed to be paying uncharacteristic amounts of attention to not breaking said structures, which Elrond found to be very strange. He stepped out of his doorway again to watch them retreat, and was caught off-guard by a hand on his shoulder.

"Are they bothering you?" asked a voice, and he turned and found that he was facing Melrohl, the lovely elleth under whose charge the children had been placed. She saw that he held a stack of books, and rushed to continue. "If you want to visit the library, I would take them elsewhere gladly. I thought since there was nobody there right now I would have them run and let off some energy."

"They do not bother me," he replied with a smile. "The failure to find amusement in such antics would be a symptom of a very ill spirit indeed. They seem particularly thrilled about something this morning."

"Yesterday they greeted the sun with Master Círdan, down on the shores. He has enamored them with building little ships." _Model ships_, thought Elrond. That's what the kids had been carrying with such care. "Truthfully I am impressed with their craftsmanship," she said, and stared down the hallway where they had disappeared. They could hear the laughter and many clunks and clatters echoing back to them. Elrond caught a wisp of exhaustion, perhaps sadness, in her voice, and he observed her eyes and the set of her mouth and neck.

"My lady, are you well?" he asked. She turned to him in surprise.

"Do I not look well?"

"You seem troubled."

"My spirit is that exposed?" she asked, now with a touch of sourness.

"I am no Círdan but I do have the benefit of counseling experience."

"I'm afraid what troubles me is nothing but petty worry."

"Let us sit," he said, and gestured to the long chest he kept in his entry. "The hall ends are closed; we can hear what trouble the children are getting up to from here." She obliged and he took a seat next to her. He had always admired Melrohl for her unshakeable spirit – nothing ever seemed to unsettle her – so to see her now troubled was alarming.

"Forgive me, then," she started, "for burdening your mind with simple personal matters… You know Tielvantel desires my hand." Elrond nodded. It was widespread knowledge that Melrohl and the young elf from Harlond, Tielvantel, would someday seek betrothal. "He asked his parents for their blessing. You know how he is so proper like that." Elrond smirked. This also was common knowledge. "They told him they would not grant their blessing," she finished, quietly.

Elrond's eyes narrowed and he reached to place his hand on her arm.

"That is surprising and unpleasant news indeed. What reason would they have?"

"Oh, it all has to do with hierarchy," she said, bitter. "What weight lies behind my name is not enough to balance their desires for their son. My hope chest is not rich enough."

"Surely Tielvantel will stand up to them."

"He will, yes, but I had wished to be on good terms with my in-laws."

"How many times have you spoken with his parents?"

"But a handful. I like to imagine that that is the problem."

"Do not simply imagine, Melrohl. You bring warmth into the hearts of all near you; I cannot for a moment think that they are immune to your enchantments."

"Warmth and enchantment are all well and good… but tradition is often a higher tower than one can scale with those tools alone." Elrond leaned back and regarded her, smirking.

"You underestimate yourself."

"I – "

"No, you do. You really do. I cannot spell you advice from my age, as we are the same in years, and I cannot ask your trust in my word due to overwhelming wisdom – we both know that – but you may take my words as genuine because you know I would not lie. Your biggest critic – "

" – is myself," she finished for him. He nodded.

"_Not _your future in-laws."

Melrohl gave him a real smile and her eyes seemed to brighten. He wasn't sure he had convinced her that all would be well, but at least she knew she had an ear.

"Your kindness is not lost to me," she said, and now it was his turn to involuntarily craft a response of denial, but she continued before he could speak. "Are we sitting on a hope chest?"

His mind wheeled, changing course.

"This… yes, this is a hope chest."

"It is rather beautiful."

"Yes, it is. A fine piece." The top was quilted and embroidered, and the sides and feet were carved into the graceful figures of gulls and clams.

"It is strange that a man should own a hope chest."

"It was my mother's. It is one of the only things of hers that I have."

They were interrupted in their conversation by the sudden approach of a pair of feet, careening down the hall, laughing coming at them louder. Melrohl leaned out of the doorway and caught the child as they ran past, giggling.

"Luhnnin, show Elrond your creation!" she said, and the elleth jumped at the chance to boast of her ship-building skills. She came forward and dropped her model into Elrond's lap.

"This is _my_ ship, and I made it just like Círdan said. See, here's the keel," she said, pointing, "and the wheel." Here she pointed to the husk of a dried seastar that had been fastened to the reed-woven hull. "This driftwood is the boom."

"Yes, I am familiar with booms."

"And the mast is a fork I took from the kitchens but don't tell anybody."

"Your secret lies with me. This is a lovely craft, Luhnnin. Very accurate. Do you suppose you will be a shipwright someday?"

"I _want _to, but my parents said I shouldn't because ship people are crude but I don't know what that means."

"Have your parents met Círdan?" Elrond said, still examining the vessel.

"No."

"Perhaps some day you can introduce them." He was particularly captivated by the sails, roughly as they had been sewn. The cloth was embroidered with gold and a beautiful dark blue.

"Okay."

"Where did you find these fine sails? They look to be silk."

"My friend Teric found it. He went looking for old cloth early this morning because he wanted to be the first one to finish his ship. It was a shirt but he said we could cut it up because it had stains and nobody would want it anyways."

"… Ah," Elrond said, his eyebrows traveling up his forehead. "I suppose he said he found them in an old chest, behind a door, did he?"

"Yes, how did you know? Elrond, can you tell what's in my head?"

"No, but I suspect I can tell what is _not _in my hope chest this morning," he said wryly, handing the boat back to the child. Melrohl gave him a puzzled look as he smiled and sent Luhnnin on her way.

"I have missed something," Melrohl said.

"Nothing of importance. Luhnnin's sails were quite familiar to me, is all."

"I watched them cut it up – the shirt was stained, like she said, and forgive me but quite a bit larger than what I would think you would wear. Surely that was not your tunic?"

"No, it was Gil-… Well, yes. Yes, it was mine. Though I wore it but once. I have had it stored in this hope chest for centuries," he mused quietly, and with an effort pulled himself out of his memories and back to the present. "A shame to have a nice tunic like that, stained though it may be, hidden out of sight. Now put to good use, though. I would rather it flown as a ship's sail than have it locked away, waiting to be useful."

"Though it does not appear that your hope chest is locked."

"You are right. If I am not careful, all of my hopes will be turned to sails."

"Perhaps that would not be so bad," she said with a grin, and he saw in her eyes that she fancied the image. He entertained the fantasy and watched in his mind as the bay filled with small boats, strung with sails that were spangled and peppered with blue and green and gold, glacial hues and sun-streaked shadows and scrawled with the wishes of anyone whose heart had ever been sown with a worry or a dream.


	4. Snuffed in a Box

**4: Snuffed in a Box **

Two years after the start of The War of the Elves and Sauron. Sauron has just begun his invasion of Eriador.

Genre: Pestilent. Rating: K. Safe for everyone who's had their typhus shots.

* * *

_S.A 1695_

_February_

_Evening_

Stepping into the vast medical tent of the refugee camp, after having ridden a long distance through the raw, icy air, was a bit of a shock. Many of the patients were swathed in blankets, and some lay bare-chested. The few people on their feet and helping out had lit small fires in portable stoves that had been split open to keep the injured warm.

Elrond pushed himself past the flap into the tent and halted, hitting a wall of oven-like air. Gil-galad, following close behind, bumped into him. Elrond put his temperature shock aside and moved over to let the king in as well, and surveyed the sick and injured survivors of one of Sauron's recent raids on the human settlements of Eriador.

"Much worse than I had expected," said Elrond to Gil-galad, setting a bag of medical supplies on the ground. Staccato hacking echoed around the walls of the tent, and a few individuals on the cots seized forward with coughing. A man who had been stoking one of the fires saw them standing at the entrance, and came forward. The side of his shirt was tattered and burned and his beard was full of ash. His wide eyes shone out from under heavy eyebrows.

"My lord," he coughed, and bowed low to Gil-galad, and then again to Elrond. "Our scout told us you were coming through."

"We were heading to Hadlindan's war encampment and refuge," said Gil-galad. "I have called for urgent council there between our generals; Sauron is changing his plans. We heard you were low on medical hands. We can help for a few hours."

"Indeed. Sauron's armies targeted our healers. One survived but is in a bad way. We have had elves come as relief troops and they have some knowledge of healing that has helped the injured but they have little to say about our sick."

"May I present to you the service of the best healer in Eriador, then," Gil-galad said, smiling, and looked to Elrond. No doubt the king was trying to raise this man's spirits, but to Elrond it looked as if the man had been stressed to the brink of madness, and it would take more than foolish optimism to pull him back. Nevertheless, he stepped up to the man.

"I have knowledge of human sickness and can help for as long as I am able." At this he glanced at Gil-galad.

"We need to be at Hadlindan's before noon tomorrow," the king said. "Do what you can in that time. How is the camp outside of this tent?" he asked the man.

"Bad, my lord. It is hastily constructed, and the people are cold and weary."

"We came with a dozen able bodies. We will do what we can to assist before we must leave."

"You would have our gratitude."

Gil-galad swept back out into the cold, and Elrond could not help but watch wistfully as the tent flap closed behind his king. The cold air no doubt bothered the humans, and for that he felt sympathy, but for himself and Gil-galad, who wore heavy surcoats and overtunics, it was much more comfortable outside than in the sweltering air of the medical tent, which stank of smoke, sweat, bitter droughts, and something sour. He took his bag back up and turned to the man.

"Show me the sick, if you would."

"Yes sir."

Elrond followed the man down a row of cots and took mental note of the residents. As miserable as the place seemed and as understaffed as it was, there was still admirable organization. Four columns of cots ran the length of the giant tent, twelve or fifteen cots per column. Every cot but three had an occupant, some looking much livelier than others. Some had bandages, but many more had bloodied rags pressed to their limbs or head. A surprising number of them had no discernable wounds at all, and Elrond sighed inwardly, relieved that so many of the patients were not injured badly.

"Here they are," the man said, stopping to sweep his hand forward.

"Which?"

"All. All of these cots, this row and a couple of those others. They're all sick. I don't know what they've got but a few more are caving to it every day. Nobody has died yet but I'm not holding my breath, some of them are sinking fast. I just don't know what to do any more. Rot it all, I never did…" his voice petered out weakly, hand over his mouth, as he stared at the patients. Elrond looked first to him, then followed his gaze.

Twenty, perhaps more. All of the people he'd assumed had had twisted ankles or headaches or dehydration. Some of them, realizing they were being observed, turned their heads to see who had come. Some of them merely stared at the ceiling, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to their skin. The heat was probably a good thing – encouraging the purging of toxins from the body – as long as enough water was available to prevent dehydration.

"You have enough water?" Elrond asked, pulling off his surcoat and overtunic, and then his jerkin.

"Yes, we've kept snow melting in the cauldrons."

"Good. Tell me everything you know."

The tired man described how a fever seemed to be the forerunner to the rest of the symptoms, but because of the extreme temperatures both inside and outside the tent, it was hard for people to tell if they had a fever or were simply suffering from fatigue and chills. Most started stumbling in when pain seized at their joints and their muscles stiffened. Some were brought in by friends, family, or strangers, after having been found in a state of confusion or stupor.

The man had almost no medical background, and Elrond felt a bit guilty pressing him for details. They approached one of the patients and Elrond tried asking some questions, but this patient's mind was dull and slow. Their temperature was high, their breath was irregular, and their heartbeat was weak and arrhythmic. A few of the patients suffered from nausea, and Elrond realized where the sour smell was coming from. He was appreciative of the fact that none of the vessels by the bedsides had anything in them, though. No doubt the man had had his hands busy emptying them, as well as keeping the cauldrons full and tending the occupants.

"What is your name?" he asked the man, whose pupils, he saw, were much smaller than they should have been in this low light.

"Duamín."

"How long have you been tending the tent?"

"Since we arrived here, four, five days past. It has been hard, since our one doctor fell ill."

"I regret to ask you to lend your hands and knowledge, for clearly you are exhausted – "

"I will do what I can."

"You are a noble man. Let me give you an infusion first, it will remove some fog from your mind."

"Aye, I do have some mind fog," said Duamín, grateful. _Poor man, _Elrond thought. Duamín was afflicted with the same fever that had brought in these patients, and had not yet recognized it. Hot water was already available, and Elrond put the infusion together within moments. He left Duamín to drink, and started a round through the patients, checking conditions and prioritizing.

Three were in an unresponsive state, including the doctor. Several were enclosed in minor fits from which they would not respond to his ministrations. Most were simply dredged in joint pain and disconcertion, assaulted by periodic nausea. When Elrond returned to crouch by Duamín, the human's eyes were closed, his fingers pressed into his eye sockets.

"Headache?" Elrond asked.

"Yeah."

"Take a cot, Duamín."

"I can help."

"You have done a tremendous amount already. While I am here you should rest."

Elrond helped the man to his feet and watched him move to one of the empty cots before taking a seat himself and deeply considering the situation. His knowledge of human disease was greater than any other elf he knew but still he was no master healer, as Gil-galad had indicated earlier.

"How goes it?" asked a voice from behind.

"Gil-galad," Elrond said. "I was just appreciating the inflated faith you have in my healing abilities."

"Come now," the king said, and sat down heavily next to Elrond. "That was not in jest."

"Human disease is a puzzling thing. There are unseen factors that we cannot yet understand."

"Yet you seem to put such factors down under your steady hand. How are things?"

"Things are ill," replied Elrond, staring across the rows of sick and injured. "The wounded are stable, for the most part, but they are housed under the same canvas as a contagion. Though this sickness seems to spread both inside and outside. I have seen things like this before and I suspect it is the fault of mice, or what they carry."

"We have seen mice by the food stores," nodded Gil-galad.

"I saw some when we rode in as well, slipping under the cloth of the smaller tents."

"So what will you do?"

"There is time for me to brew an infusion, and I would use the remainder of our hours here using higher expressions. How are the rest?"

"A tough bunch, but weary. I will leave two riders here."

Elrond nodded, and then the king rose and left to continue his aid outside. Elrond came to his feet and turned the contents of his bag out on a table. The passing of the stars overhead was lost to him and hours traveled wayward past his attentions.

Every conscious patient seemed relieved to see the face of an elf, and every patient whose bedside he left was pushed into rest by a warm force that they could not comprehend but welcomed mightily all the same. Some needed only a drought and a cool hand on their head. Others, convulsing, needed arms against which to brace their thrashing, and stronger potions to be forced on them. He rolled up his sleeves and wetted dozens of parceled linens in cold water to put out the flames raging across chests and brows. Several others came inside, coughing, and soon all cots were full. The sickness continued to spread. Caution asked for all residents of the camp to be given a healing drought, and he startled to find that the water cauldrons were empty. It would take time to melt enough snow to do this.

Empty vessel in hand, he pushed out of the tent and took in a sharp breath as the wind's icy fingers pricked through his tunic. The sun shocked his eyes and he despaired to realize it was already mid-morning. They would need to leave soon, and the time it would take for enough water to boil would be too much. He set the vessel for snow down and started searching the little camp for Gil-galad. It was not hard to find him; his voice was the loudest noise in the area, aside from the pounding of hurried construction.

"Oi, Elrond," the king called, arms full of canvas. "What news?" Elrond waited to say anything until he had drawn closer to the king, not wanting to put fear into the minds of the humans that worked with the elves.

"I believe the illness will run its course without causing death, given some care and infusions."

"Good."

"It is very contagious. I would not be surprised if the illness has already taken hosts of every human here. Only time will tell how many will fall under it. I would give everyone an infusion but the water will not be ready until after noon." At this, Gil-galad raised his eyebrow.

"Elrond, I will find it very difficult to give you leave of tomorrow's meeting."

"Only let me talk to one who you said you would have stay here. They can put together the right drought and keep an eye on patients."

"Ah. Yes, talk to Amras over there."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, and pulled Amras to the tent to show him what needed to be done. He asked the elf to commit the recipe to memory and be attentive to the timing of application. Then Elrond went over his instructions with Duamín as well, who nodded his understanding but otherwise continued to look disoriented. Elrond spent the remainder of the hours in the camp quietly intoning for assistance over the bodies of the most afflicted and was surprised when Gil-galad once again appeared at his side.

"I think we have done much to harbor the people from the cold," Gil-galad said. "At least all we can afford to do in the time we have. We have left what little provisions we had with their cook."

"Time to go?"

"Time to go. We – Elbereth, have you looked at yourself lately?"

"What?"

"Your tunic. Look at it."

Elrond looked down at himself and frowned. The white cloth was flecked with the blood of the wounded, wetted in part by droughts spilled by unsteady patients, and spotted here and there with other bits that Elrond chose not to think about.

"There are Men at Hadlindan's, are there not?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I thought as much. I will be out in a moment, I need to burn this."

"Your tunic?"

"I am sure the sickness has settled into it by now. I cannot bring it with us."

"Did you bring an extra?"

"No, Gil-galad, I did not bring an extra tunic," sighed Elrond.

Gil-galad regarded him for a moment before leaving the tent, and Elrond pulled his tunic off to drop it into one of the flaming stove boxes before finding the corner in which he had dumped his other articles. The rough fabric of his jerkin would not be kind on his skin but it would work under a surcoat until they came to Hadlindan's, where surely they would have extra clothing.

"Elrond!" called Gil-galad, who had returned now and stood near. Elrond turned around and saw a wad of cloth flying towards his face. He snatched it out of the air and gave a wry laugh.

"This is familiar," he said. "Thank you but this is not needed. I will wait until Hadlindan's encampment, I am quite sure they – "

"That's one of yours," the king said, amused. Elrond's eyebrows fell and he unfurled the tunic in his hands to discover that it was, indeed, one of his own. He looked up at Gil-galad, a question in his mouth, but the king spoke before he could.

"If you have not learned these past decades that you cannot go anywhere without an extra tunic, at least _I_ have. Be glad your hope chest was not locked."

Elrond, at a loss for words, slipped into the shirt and then quickly pulled his jerkin and surcoat on, and took up his overtunic. Gil-galad had been watching him with a sort of melancholic fondness, and now Elrond stood still in his gaze.

"What?"

"Elrond," Gil-galad said, "you are one of the most able elves I know. Your wisdom surpasses many around you and your gifts for lore and healing touch many, many lives. I find it difficult to believe that for all that, you still manage to traipse about ruining so many tu – "

"_Please_," interrupted Elrond, "my king, do not plague me with your critiques. Do not try to infer that you have never been so troll-minded as well." He paused to finally pull on his overtunic and take up his bag. "Someday I will learn. Thank you for your foresight."

"Foresight? A dwarf could have predicted as much."

Elrond saw Gil-galad's smile as they turned to leave the tent, but it melted from his face immediately as he turned to watch the patients a moment longer, regret in his bright eyes. Elrond felt it as well but they both knew they had done all they could have done with what they had.

"Is this how all the new camps will be, then?" asked Elrond, grim as they turned back into the chill sunlight. "Sauron targets the healers. The sick and wounded go unattended. Our own resources wear thin." They passed by tents, the drawn faces of women and children poking through, some waving goodbye to them and some only staring. They were still in shock, it was apparent. Where would the refugees go now? Where was there to flee to besides the Havens? The port towns could only support so many before bogging down.

"Elrond," Gil-galad said, "Remember two things from today. One… extra tunic. Two: when it comes to a conflict such as war, it is never what you have or what you know that counts the most. It is what you think of in time. We go to Hadlindan's to mobilize and reconsider. We will sharpen our wits and prepare our next move. And you will pack an extra tunic. I am your king, not your suitcase."

"I remind you, that was your own decision to – "

"We ride," Gil-galad called, cutting off Elrond's response. "Up now, warriors, to Hadlindan's encampment!" The other elves swung up to their horses, and Gil-galad and Elrond followed suit. Leaving the refugee camp, Elrond felt his head clear of the smoke and desperation so apparent on the occupants, and the freezing air, as it cleaved apart in front of him, seemed to wash the pestilence of the tent from his body and mind. The ride to the next encampment was not long, though. Sauron's reach was fearful to witness and he did not like to think what news and conditions they would meet with upon arrival. Gil-galad, riding just ahead of him, whose eyes were catching the light from the snow, seemed to be looking into another plane of being altogether. Gil-galad was like that sometimes, and it was humbling for Elrond to behold. He realized that if Gil-galad were to ever again have to tell him to pack an extra tunic, Elrond would surely die of embarrassment.


	5. Silk

**5: Silk**

I learned something interesting about silk tunics! And now Elrond will too. Due to holiday shenanigans, today's is a shortypants story (an accurate forecast for the next few as well). Tomorrow is my mercy day, see you all on Tuesday!

Genre: Textiles. Rating: K.

* * *

_S.A 1701_

_Midsummer_

"Elrond," Gil-galad said, as Elrond turned to leave the council room after the rest of the generals.

"Yes?"

"A gift before you go." The king took up a bundle that had been sitting at the base of his chair during their war meeting, and came up to Elrond. He stood for a moment to consider what was held in his hands before looking up.

"From me to you," Gil-galad said, and then, "It was Círdan's idea, really. Said he felt strangely about the upcoming strife between our eastern line and Sauron's forces. He said he was worried about you, so we thought… Well, never mind all that. Here." The king handed Elrond the bundle. Elrond eyed it, rather sure about what it was but not so much about the purpose of such a gift. He let the grey cloth unfurl in his hands, and his suspicion was proven.

"You gift me with a tunic for your worries?" he asked Gil-galad, curiously.

"Not just any tunic. This is silk."

"Very fine indeed and I thank you, but I do not understand. Surely you do not intend for me to ride into battle with it?"

"Of course I do," Gil-galad smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now go on. Your troops are waiting. All speed and good luck."

Puzzled, Elrond spared a second to look back at Gil-galad, and easily detected that beneath his good-natured smile the king was troubled. But now was not the time for such worries. Gift in hand, he turned to the steps, and to the elves he would lead into the fray.

**-)O(-**

_If this gift of Gil-galad's was supposed to keep me safe_, thought Elrond, biting back a groan, _I have some disappointing news for him._ He hadn't looked yet and he'd done his best to ignore the strange, dull pain in his chest until it became apparent that the elves had gained the upper hand and the remnants of the enemy had started to flee with the rising of the sun. The front line doctors had finally managed to drag him from the field and convince him to lay still long enough for them to see what had happened; it _was _rather a mess.

They had been expecting the trolls, but they hadn't necessarily been ready for them. No doubt the Númenóreans would have had some sort of siege engine to bull down the trolls but the men had not reached the front lines yet, being too far north. Arrows took down most of the brutes but still Elrond had had the misfortune of finding himself in the path of a raging monster. The thing's hand had the size and heft of a small pony, and had wrapped around his waist and snatched him into the air, with just enough warning for Elrond to keep his arms from being pinned. For a moment Elrond had thought perhaps it would have been better if his arms _had _become pinned, to afford more protection from the troll's crushing grip – the trunk-like fingers were crunching together, and alarming sensations came to him as his armor started to twist and collapse. But the troll had brought Elrond too closely up to its face to watch the death, and Elrond had thrust his blade into the troll's eye socket and twisted. The effect hadn't been immediate – in fact at first it had seemed to serve only to make the troll angrier, causing it to bellow in rage and tighten its grip still further. Elrond had become assailed with pain and had dropped his blade, and then the troll's grip shifted, Elrond dropped through space, shield-sized fingernails gripped at his armor and threw him to the side, and then he'd smashed into the stones and sharp sedge.

He was on his feet – non too steady – in moments, and saw that the troll had fallen still. His armor was in ruins, crushed and constricting his breath, and one of the ribs was attempting to invade his torso. He gripped the loosened piece and pulled out, then tugged it down to rest against another rib. Not in the least bit safe, as now a sliver of his torso was exposed, but safer still than risking a punctured lung. He went to retrieve his weapon and was promptly struck with an arrow that hit precisely the location that his armor had just vacated.

He had had just enough time to curse his ill fortune, and despair of the impossibly slim chances that such a thing could happen, before two orcs had set upon him.

His wrath lent him speed, and soon had dispatched those orcs, and several others. Having seen the enemy begin to flee soon after, he now chanced to look down at the situation, as the doctor who had remained with him pulled away the rest of his armor. Of course the nice silk tunic Gil-galad had given him was now stained irreparably crimson around the wound.

Elrond was about to ask how the arrow would come out, but the doctor had braced one hand around the area of the penetration, and with his other had tugged once, rather gently, and drawn the arrow away. The pain far failed what Elrond had been expecting, and he looked down at the wound in an attempt to see the severity. He was puzzled for a moment over the hole in the fabric, which was much smaller than he would have guessed.

"Good choice," the doctor said, "that silk tunic. You are lucky to have one. Almost as good as mail, but light as a feather. The wound is clean and not lethal, I will take you to the back line medics to be treated."

As they left the field and went to the back lines, Elrond took a moment to reconsider Gil-galad's gift. Being a healer and a warrior, Elrond was upset to learn that he hadn't yet known about the miracle of silk. When an arrow struck linen or wool, the warp and weft would readily part or rip to make way for the point. He now realized that when an arrow struck silk, however, the weave would catch the spin of the incoming point and wrap around it, much like a spider would wrap a victim in thread, which would prevent deep penetration and allow for easy removal, not to mention keep the wound cleaner. No doubt Círdan had somehow foreseen this event, and Gil-galad had acted against it. If the tunic had not saved his life, it had at least prevented a considerable amount of suffering.

"Sir," said an elf, coming up alongside him. It was Illón, one of his captains. "Are you hurt?"

"Not badly. How do you fare?"

"I fare well. We have driven them back toward the mountains. They have suffered severe casualties. I believe Sauron's armies are regrouping beyond the fells for a combined strike, possibly very soon."

"Ciryatur and his Númenóreans come soon from the North, and Gil-galad's elves will join us shortly from the West. Sauron is not ready for the force we present, with the aid of the Númenóreans. I have much hope for us. Has the morning messenger left for the Havens yet?"

"Not yet, sir. Shall I send something for you?"

"Fetch me a parchment and quill, Illón, please."

Illón saluted and went to find the objects. Probably an inappropriate thing to ask a captain to do with his time, but Elrond wanted to send a note to Círdan before the oncoming battle. He would see Gil-galad soon enough to thank him. Illón found him in the medical tent after a compress had been placed over his wound. He thanked the captain and put the quill to the parchment:

_Master Círdan,_

_I regret to inform you that yours and Gil-galad's gift to me has been ruined, though I suspect you knew of its fate before the tunic was given. Your vision was not a fabrication, so to speak. Still, I will wear it into this battle on the banks of the Gwathlo, and let us hope that I will never have need of a silk tunic again. _

_By your consideration does my heart feel deep gratitude,_

_-Elrond_


	6. Upon Waking

**6: Upon Waking**

Elrond finds himself involuntarily under the influence of mind-altering drugs.

Genre: Amnesia, humor. Rating: K+ for non-recreational drug use? + for safety.

* * *

_S.A 3431_

_Spring_

Initially, Elrond didn't care. There were lighter areas on the cloudy, rusty, shifting murk, and some darker areas, but there was simply no reason to give them a second thought. No reason to give _anything _a second thought, as there was nothing to consider in the first place. He was not even aware of the acute numbness that encased his body, though as he became sentient to the passing of time, he did feel as if something was amiss.

The rest of the realization hit him like a free-flying kick line.

He tried to sit up, but he wasn't sure which way was up, and though he knew his body was doing _something_, it definitely was not doing what he _wanted _it to do. A single, blaring thought forcibly ousted the void that had been in his mind, and that thought was something akin to _panic_, all the more penetrating because he had not a clue as to what he should be panicking about. This sensation gave him the fleeting impression that he was running from his own shadow, which he had never done before, which only added to the surrealistic mental quagmire through which he was now slogging.

Logic took over for a brief moment, and he willed himself to calm down. Surely there was a rational explanation for this.

After a handful of seconds – minutes? Hours? – he concluded that, no, there was no rational explanation. In fact there was no _anything_. He could conjure nothing into his mind at will. He had an inexplicable urge to protect his left elbow, but he could not locate his left elbow, which he found to be rather frustrating. He kept trying, though. Perseverance usually paid off, and he knew his elbow was in dire need of being protected, so he could hardly give up.

His head needed protection as well, he thought, for it was bothering him tremendously with something, perhaps pain. Dreadful pressure. He located his right hand and was relieved to find that he was almost positive that he was moving it in the correct direction to reach his head.

Halfway along its journey, Elrond's hand was waylaid. He willed it to move but it refused to budge, or he thought it did. Something was preventing it, and he very much wished he could see what it was, and as the thought passed through his mind, his vision came into focus. Memory would have told him that he had been able to see all along and his mind simply hadn't bothered to acknowledge sight, but memory was not in perfect attendance at the moment.

There was an elf sitting by his side, sort of hanging above him, looking quite concerned and a bit familiar. Elrond squinted against the light that blazed from the other elf's eyes, and saw that his own hand was caught fast in the clutches of the other. What was this elf doing, preventing him from moving? The brilliant glow was doing nothing at all for his head, which he'd decided did indeed hurt, and quite a bit.

"Let go, please," he said, not wanting to offend the elf. His own voice registered in his head, and he sounded less like a speaking free person than a sick leopard frog calling for a mate. He took a breath to try again but the other elf beat him to it.

"Elrond! How do you feel?" they seemed to bellow exuberantly, and he closed his eyes and grimaced against the din.

"Ssssshhhh!" he hissed, and this, at least, he knew came out correctly.

"… But that _was _quiet! They _told _me you may be sensitive for a bit!"

The elf's consonants assaulted his brain and he tried to cover his ears but one of his hands was still trapped between a pair of others, and his other hand, his left hand, was not responding at all.

"Do not try to move, Elrond! Your arm is in a brace, they had to relocate the elbow!" Despite the agonizing volume of this elf's voice, Elrond's mind came out of the crevasse it had backed into, curious.

"What? Relocate?" he asked, very slowly and deliberately, and was pleased to hear that his words came out on the positive margins of audibility.

"Yes, you see, after the party of goblins came…"

The elf continued to speak, but to Elrond, the voice now became tinny and thin and nothing the elf was saying was loud enough to hear, which may have been due in part to the symphony of rushing blood playing in his ears. He turned his concentration to tugging his hand free of the iron-like grip it was held in. Little progress could be made on that front. The noise in his head quieted or the voice got louder again and he could once again make out what the elf was saying, not that he cared much.

"…but they did not think to consider that you were an elf – "

"Who are you?" Elrond interrupted.

The elf stopped talking and gave him a very bemused smile. His eyes twinkled in what must have been candlelight and the look was very familiar, and the dark hair was very familiar, and he knew that he knew this elf, but the name simply was not forthcoming.

"Do you jest?" the elf asked.

"My dear acquaintance, I am in no state to jest."

"Your words become clearer."

"Yet my mind continues to fail me. I cannot remember your name, or our relation."

"Worry not, Elrond, the effects will wear off soon enough, we hope."

"Effects? Effects of what?" he asked. His mind badly wanted to fall back into a state of blissful disarray; he fought to control his thoughts.

"Why, I just told you."

"Humor me."

"After you were hit the men insisted on giving you a potion. They feared to have you awake through the relocation."

"Whatever for?"

"Men, my friend. Pain grates worse upon their spirits. They do not understand elves. Nor do we understand them."

"But what did they give me?"

"An infusion of pulverized thorn-apple seed and mawseed flower."

"Wargspit," Elrond cursed, chagrined, though it came out as more of a whine. "Do they wish me dead?"

"Rather the opposite. All aside, it _did_ put you out."

"Why did you allow them to do this to me?... No, why did _I_ allow this? I would have objected."

"I was busy redirecting our forces. And you had been hit in the head."

"I thought I had been hit in the elbow."

"You really have no memory of the events?"

"Obviously not."

The elf laughed, and his eyes blazed again. So familiar. If the memory void was simply the after-affects of involuntarily-consumed mind-altering drugs, Elrond was sure that the elf's identity would surface in due time, and in the meanwhile, Elrond wasn't going to embarrass himself further by admitting how foggy his mind still was. He was simply going to lie here and recover from whatever it was that had happened.

The elf finally placed Elrond's hand safely back by his side, and Elrond realized he'd forgotten that it had been anywhere else. He started to raise it to his head but the elf caught it and pushed it back down.

"You have a bit of a nasty gash on the head, there. Best not to touch it."

"Oh."

He lay still again, and tried with painfully slow success to think – about anything. The elf next to him turned aside and concentrated on a parchment, scribbling furiously with a quill.

"What are you doing?" Elrond asked.

"Ever the scholar, hmm?" the elf replied. "Writing to Círdan. This event has changed our course a bit, we must let him know. Also, this pass did not lead to where we had been expecting. I shall do my best to record the lay of the land, so that your maps back in Imladris may be amended."

_Círdan? Imladris?_ The words served to remove some of the fog in his head. He pondered longer on them and in moments his wits had begun to return in an avalanche. The awkward, uncomfortable feel of this situation, whatever it was that had happened, was dwarfed by the newly returned gravity of the larger picture. The One Ring. Sauron's armies. The coming together of Men and Elves – The Last Alliance – the great march to Imladris.

"Hey Elrond," said the elf, without looking up from his parchment.

"Hmm?"

"You ruined another tunic."

Elrond's mind did a double-take and for a moment he worried that he may have sprained it. One more look at the back of the elf's head.

"King Gil-galad," he stated, and then let out a weak bark of a laugh.

"What? Why do you laugh, vice-regent?" the king asked, and turned around.

"To think that your name, of all names, would be so elusive until you break to me such routine news. Do you know, Gil-galad, one of the things about you that I find most endearing is that you never fail to show me the humor in a situation in which I've lost all sense of what humor is." He paused, and had a thought, which was, "_and I would never have told you that had I not been drugged. In fact I'm not sure if I really mean that._" Gil-galad's eyebrows raised and Elrond realized he'd stated his thoughts out loud.

"How about some shut-eye?" Gil-galad said, smiling. "When you wake up, the drug will have worn off, no doubt, and you will once again be sharp as a trollblade."

"Not very sharp, that."

"I jest, but when else will I ever be able to insult you safely? No doubt you will have forgotten this whole conversation upon waking. Now, do not show me your eyes until you have rested. I must finish this letter before our messenger embarks."

Elrond closed his eyes to shut out the light coming from the king's gaze, and against the ever-increasing pain in his head, and against the blizzard-like chaos of his thoughts. Briefly, before letting go of his tenuous bit of awareness, he hoped that Gil-galad was right, and that he wouldn't remember any of this; it was all rather silly.

* * *

_A/N: No, I did not use amnesia as an excuse not to have to think up yet another situation in which Elrond looses a tunic... Do not deny that amnesia fics are fun once in a great, great, great while. _


	7. Elf Scout

**7: Elf Scout**

Two months before the Battle of Dagorlad, Elrond is finally being responsible about things. Holy crap, unexpected guests in my life, suddenly no time to do anything but host them except at night when I should be sleeping! Best laid plans of mice and Men often go awry, especially around the holidays.

Genre: General. Rating: K.

* * *

_S.A 3434_

_March_

"I know we all agreed that it would be best to take the high road through the range of Emyn Muil," grumbled Hadlindan, "but how was it that we failed to take into account how cold it would be?"

"Surely the cold does not bother you, General," Gil-galad said.

"What bothers me is my thirst, and the fact that our water is frozen."

"An unfortunate predicament indeed, though better preparedness may have directed you to have a pot of water over a fire by this time," said the king, raising an eyebrow. Young Hadlindan was a remarkable leader of people and a natural choice as General, but rather inexperienced in the ways of travel; this concept was only too familiar to Elrond, who well recollected when he had been the same way. Gil-galad had taken great delight in teasing him about this, and Elrond often wondered if Gil-galad had ever gone through a similar phase, or had always been the resourceful character that he was today.

"Have some of mine," Elrond said to Hadlindan, and gestured to a pot that sat upon a small fire that was chewing despondently through punky wood and pinecones; all that could be found for fuel at this altitude, and in March. It was throwing off alarming amounts of smoke, but they were not concerned. No doubt the enemy had been tracking their movements for days, weeks even. One would have to be blind to miss the marching of hundreds and thousands of men and elves. No, the enemy would wait at the gates of Cirith Gorgor for them to cross the marshes.

From which point they came, however, and with what forces, was now under discussion. Gil-galad, Elrond, Illón and Hadlindan had gathered to sit upon the boulders of the mountain slope that their company had stopped on for the night. They had spent years in Imladris strategizing over the meeting of their armies and those of Sauron's, but the movements of other parties were proving to be difficult to predict.

"Do you suppose," General Illón said, "we might gain the loyalty of Oropher and Amdír if we sent them biscuits and a written apology?"

"Apology for what?" sighed Gil-galad. "They are acting callow. They are too bullheaded to obey the direction of the Noldor."

"Perhaps we needn't go into specifics," Illón said. "You know, _Dear Oropher. Our most sincere apologies. After we have thrown Sauron to ruins and cast the One Ring into the fires, let us have a dinner party. Our place. Drinks provided. Everlastingly yours, The High King of the Noldor and your humble leader of the Last Alliance. _Might that sway their poor attitude?"

"Theirs' is not the only poor attitude, I see," said Elrond. Gil-galad had apparently not been paying much heed to Illón's comment, and now stood between the other three elves, then knelt, and smoothed out the silt beneath their feet. He placed two sticks together perpendicular, and then a mass of gravel above their point. It was clear to the others that the two sticks were the two ranges that met around the borders of Mordor, and the rocks were the mountains through which they now traveled.

"This," Gil-galad said, pointing, "is the marshland. I know we had thought to travel east and avoid this mess altogether, then come south to meet Sauron on Dagorlad. This is where the company of men travel to as we speak." The men, led by Elendil, had taken a lower route east, having opted for the easier, and warmer, path. The elves had taken the higher route to keep a more careful eye on any of the enemy's movements. For the most part the two hosts had traveled in close approximation, but now they were distanced by altitude. "As you all know, we have been joined, in a way, by the Silvan hosts, who approach from the west. They do not wish to follow us so far east; they wish to take a more direct route, even though it means crossing the marshes."

"They do not have the weight of armor to contend with," said Hadlindan. "They will not sink as Elendil's men would, and the crossing would not be easy for our elves."

"I fear they will regret their lighter burdens when we finally meet with the enemy," replied Gil-galad. "Perhaps a split attack would not be a bad thing, but such a maneuver requires complete synchronicity. Such organization will never be present between their commanders and ours. Their attempt will endanger them. Besides, there is little hope of any convenient communication, what with the lay of the land between them and us."

"What do you mean?" asked Elrond. "Messengers could make it fairly safely and quickly from our host to theirs."

"How? The way would either be over the marsh, which would afford no cover from the fell beasts, or over the mountains, which would be safe, but speed would be an issue."

"Hold on, let me just…" Elrond's voice muffled as he bent to dig in his pack, and drew out a roll of papers. He lay them out on the ground and shuffled through them, putting aside an array of maps and documents. Gil-galad picked one of them up; it was freshly inked, and only part filled in.

"A map," he murmured, and turned it on its side. "A map of our route?"

"Yes, I am recording our route and the general lay of the land as we move," Elrond replied absently, still shuffling through his papers. "Nobody has yet put down in detail what the lands near Mordor are like, at least not along this range. It would seem that the responsibility has fallen to us… Ah, here." He drew out a large parchment and spread it out, pushing the others aside. "I found this during my studies in Imladris last year. A man from Gondor brought it from an old collection. Its origin is unknown, possibly the route taken by Easterlings in the First Age as they came west. See how it skirts around the marshes and the mountains? According to this, there _is _a route somewhere that we might utilize for communication with the Silvan."

"According to just one map," Illón said. "How can we trust it?"

"I have heard from west-going travelers that they have passed this way safely as well. It would seem to be a local tread, kept quiet from foreigners."

"How could one of our messengers expect to find the exact route in time to get to the Silvan host?" Hadlindan asked.

"Do you see how detailed this map is? I have been comparing its elevations to some of the minor peaks around us; its accuracy is inarguable. We have only to find the beginning to know if it indeed exists."

"I have a question," said Gil-galad, who had been listening with interest. "Where in the name of Ulmo did you find the time to _study _these past three years? I am sure I never saw you away from the training arena or the dining hall."

"You studied as much as I. Now, as this map appears to have been… been created…" Something niggled at Elrond's attention. His focus was breaking down, being pulled away. "Excuse me. This map appears to have been created before the spread of the…" He sat up straight now, forgetting whatever it was he'd been trying to say. Something was wrong. He looked south, across the side of the mountain they were camped on. Gil-galad seemed similarly riveted: both the king and his herald stared across at the uneven treeline. They glanced at each other, and Elrond came to his feet.

"What do you see?" asked Hadlindan. Illón followed their gaze, curious.

"Nothing, yet…" murmured Gil-galad. They had posted sentries around the perimeter of their encampment, and Elrond could see two of them, and both had drawn their blade, looking south.

"Hoofbeats," Gil-galad said, at the same moment that the sound came to Elrond's ears. "Coming swiftly. Six, seven, maybe eight. A distance off."

"We sent five scouts out not two hours ago," Elrond said. "These beats sound more fleet than an enemy's steed. Maybe our scouts return with news."

"Being followed by two other riders?" asked Gil-galad, who now took off in the direction of the woods, and the sentries.

"Or being accompanied by," said Elrond. "Generals, ready the site. Let us be cautious." As the two younger elves moved to alert the surrounding troops, Elrond went to keep pace with the king. The sentries had drawn their bows and nocked them with arrows, and before Gil-galad and Elrond could make it halfway to the woods, the first rider came through the brush.

As expected, it was one of their scouts they'd sent out earlier, grey cape flying behind and grey horse sprinting towards them. Four other elf scouts burst from the brush, and then two more horses came, clearly not elf horses. The sentries kept their arrows trained but it soon became apparent that they were mounts of Elendil. One rider slouched in his saddle and the other had fallen forward and begun to slide off the side of the horse. No doubt the mounts had simply followed the elven riders in their wild ride, and now the entire small company rode to meet Gil-galad. One of the scouts dismounted, half-bowed, and saluted.

"My king, we are being followed by a small host of men, Easterlings, not ten behind. Ten minutes behind," he said, stumbling a little over his words. The horses of the wounded men pawed at the ground, and Elrond approached them, laying hands on their necks to calm the beasts.

"Who are these two men?" Gil-galad asked, and Elrond saw that the first one was still in relative good shape, aside from a bloody nose and minor lacerations. The second man, the one falling out of his saddle, was holding grimly and weakly on to consciousness.

"Scouts from Elendil's encampment. We heard their cries before we broke apart, and investigated." Elrond, half-listening, went to the more wounded man and tried to determine the severity of the injury. The man only let out a groan and clutched at his middle, which had been badly torn and had already bled an alarming amount. "We came to see that the Easterlings were coming in from the east," the scout continued, "and had ambushed Elendil's scouts. With arrows we were able to free the men enough to escape and follow us. We thought to lead them to the safety of this camp, but the Easterlings have kept hard at us. They will be here soon."

"How many?"

"Not a hundred, my lord."

"They are insane to break upon our host of elves."

"I do not think they have used scouts. They must not be aware of our numbers."

"Good. The Generals Illón and Hadlindan are behind in the camp, alerting the men. Find them and tell them to go to their own companies next and rally them for a defense. Let us be ready for them. We will leave none alive." The scout nodded and, followed by the other four scouts, and the other man who fared better, entered the encampment.

"I hear them," Gil-galad said, and Elrond nodded. The ground had been telling him for the past few moments that a large party was nearing. He and Gil-galad followed the scouts back into the camp and to the first flat piece of ground. "Elrond," Gil-galad said, "come, form the troops."

Elrond did not answer at first, and instead eased the wounded man the rest of the way out of the saddle and laid him as gently as he could on the ground. "We sent our healers to tend to Elendil's wounded, after their encounter with the orc party along the Anduín."

"Aye, and we sent Círdan with the healers, to help them set their engines of war on better wheels for travel. I know you would help this man but without Círdan I have no sub-herald. The enemy draws near, I need a commander."

Elrond, seeing the painful rictus of the man's pale face and watching the blood flow still freely from the wound, felt awful. Nobody else would be able to help him, but Elrond's responsibility bid him to stand by his king, not kneel by the wounded. With the footsteps of eighty or so men coming to him audibly now, he went to his pack and drew out grey fabric, then knelt again by the wounded man.

"Now, Elrond," said Gil-galad sharply. "We must act quickly. I need your voice to get our elves in line."

Elrond crammed the fabric between the man's own hands, and then pressed the whole wad to the wound.

"Keep pressure on it," he said, praying the man could hear him, and sending precisely one second of healing energy into him before standing, turning, and catching up to Gil-galad, who had taken off to the front of the lines that had begun to form, of their own accord.

"Orders, my lord," Elrond said.

"Archers behind me and three lines of infantry, and two units down the left and right wings. Cap with cavalry. Take charge of releases. I will lead advance."

Elrond nodded and swerved off to do the king's bidding, roaring out orders that echoed off every boulder on the mountainside. Very soon the host was organized and ready, motionless as the Easterlings came ever closer to breaching the treeline. Elrond took up his position next to Gil-galad, Hadhafang drawn and bright in the moonlight, Aeglos like a bolt from the sky.

"Was that an extra tunic I saw you draw out of your pack?" Gil-galad said, though his eyes were trained on the treeline.

"Yes."

"I am impressed, Elrond. Finally the proper warrior-traveler. Let us hope your present tunic does not meet upon unpleasant circumstances now, for I doubt you will want your extra back."

"You will be proud to know that I packed an _extra_ extra tunic this time. I am upset to be loosing one so early after leaving Imladris."

"You cannot be surprised, though," said Gil-galad, who spared Elrond a very brief sidelong glance, and Elrond thought maybe the king looked a bit proud, or surprised, or maybe it was just the battle fury that sometimes filled the inside of the king's head that made his face so unreadable during times like this.

* * *

_A/N: And that was the last we will hear from Gil-galad in this series._


	8. The Pyre

**8: The Pyre**

A quiet moment following the largest bummer of the first half of Elrond's life.

Genre: h/c, friendship. Rating: K. I now realize my ratings aren't as amuck as I thought they'd be.

* * *

_S.A 3441/T.A 1 _

_Autumn_

The honor and burden of lighting the fallen king's pyre had been offered to Elrond, but he had turned it down, along with the offer of the throne. Instead Círdan had wielded the torch, and had done so with a level of grace and dignity that only the shipwright would have been able to muster. Traditionally, every one of the war flags of a fallen king would be burned. Elrond had directed the pyre's construction, and he alone, having been vice-regent and herald, had brought together the thirty-five pennants, charred and frayed after having lead thousands through a decade of battle, to fly en masse and be consumed with the remains of Ereinion Gil-galad.

He had stood as close as the heat had allowed, backed by the rest of the silent host, at the burning of the pyre. It had burned very long, and it had burned very hot. The brilliance was such that the men had shaded their eyes, and never before and never again did any elf witness a sending-off of such splendid luminosity.

Many things plagued Elrond for a time after being witness to this event, and the giant among such issues was the thought that the age of the elves was over and the time of Man had supposedly dawned. Elrond had stood to see that in the cusp of the turning of the age, men had already taken to their knees in the face of the fear they held of their own Gift. He had watched Isildur as he left the ranks of the Free People he had fought for and next to during the Battle of the Last Alliance. Even after the dark lord was routed, Elrond had watched the seed of evil take root within mortal blood.

The bitterness in his spirit was the reason he now held the last of Gil-galad's mighty standards folded into a bundle and close to his heart – the first one created and the first one on the field – as he crouched alone near a small fire he'd set alight to brighten this layer of night. It was the flag Elrond had carried into their last battle, and it was the flag he hadn't been able to bring himself to burn over Gil-galad's body. Reserving it had not been a proper thing to do but nobody had noticed, and Elrond could imagine Gil-galad approving anyway. It wasn't as if he were going to tuck it away into his hope chest, where it would either sit and molder into dust or possibly be taken by a passing child, or a king.

Somebody approached slowly from behind, obviously taking care to step on several sticks along the way, so as not to startle him. He _had _fallen into a reverie, and was grateful for his visitor's consideration. He shifted slightly to see behind.

"Círdan," he said. "How did you know I wished to see you?"

"A feeling," the old elf said, and came to sit near him by the fire.

"When do you leave for Lindon?" Elrond asked.

"With the rising of the sun. There is nothing left here for me to do. And when do you depart for Imladris?"

"When my spirit has settled."

"And what do you hold there against your robes?"

"I can hide nothing from you," Elrond said, and drew out the flag. He handed it to Círdan without a word. Círdan brushed the silver stars and let his fingers rest across the trim.

"Your war standard. Saved from the flames?"

"Saved, or displaced."

"How do you mean?" Círdan, asked, handing the fabric back. Elrond refused it.

"Keep it. I mean to send it with you to Lindon. Sew it into the sails of the next ship bound West. Gil-galad's wish was to protect the next age for the Men who would rule it, and now Isildur has…" Elrond stopped himself, unwilling to fall back into a bitter lurch. "What I mean to say is that all of what our king stood for should not go up in smoke and ash. Let a piece of it sail West."

Círdan regarded him gently, through the centuries etched in his eyes. He had something to say, Elrond could tell, but first the shipwright waited to let the fire speak – a thin branch, blackened and scored, crumbled and sent sparks into the heat draft – and then the wind had its say, tugging brittle leaves from branch tips to rustle between trunks and brambles and to settle finally, softly, tumbling against the ground.

"You do know, I think, that the spirit of Gil-galad's actions has been pressed into the hearts of those who followed him. Into yours and mine," Círdan said in measured tone.

"Yes, master shipwright, this I know. My action was highly personal. Highly unnecessary as well, no doubt."

"But your spirit sits better for having done this. Preserved this standard for fairer shores."

"Yes."

"Or, as you say, _displaced _this standard…?"

"Yes…" Elrond said, and a bit of wistful nostalgia swept briefly across his features. Something else had flown over the pyre to be burned. It would have been too noticeable of a gap otherwise. The other thirty-four flags were so tattered, and what he had flown in this standard's place was so threadbare, that little difference was there to be seen. "You recall, no doubt, my history with tunics."

"A remarkable history indeed."

"Gil-galad was present for a number of those incidences. At the service I raised one on the pennant bar over the king's pyre."

"The one you wore into the last battle."

"Yes."

"A standard of its own. Perhaps more meaningful than any bit of woven fabric flown open to the wind."

"I cannot fathom from where my actions sprung…"

"As a seabass does not fathom the flick of the tail that sends it from its enemy, and the falcon does not fathom its tucked shape as it dives for prey. You were the herald, Elrond. The standards were your extension of the king's wishes. Some things we find we must do, and they are beyond our understanding."

Elrond looked long on the shipwright, who himself contemplated the flames. Círdan had acted with complete composure since the death of the king, and Elrond knew that Círdan and Gil-galad had known each other far longer than the king had known Elrond. Círdan had been a bit of a foster figure to Gil-galad, in fact. Elrond wondered if the shipwright hid his pain with the efficiency of ages of practice, or if death could no longer cast its shadow upon the brow of one so wise.

The old elf emerged from whatever memory, or thought, or prophecy, had been occupying his mind, and focused on Elrond again.

"So now you would send your hope to fly on the whims of fate?" he asked. "Are not sails at the mercy of irrepressible winds?" Círdan was testing him. His question was an easy one to answer, but Elrond would not have seen the answer had Círdan not asked.

"Sails are the medium through which the sailor and the wind take communion," Elrond said, and the angry grains of soul that had been rattling in his chest started to calm.

"You are wise as well, young one," smiled Círdan. He stood, flag folded and held close. Elrond stood too and they embraced, to say goodbye for a while and to be comforted by the torch that they each carried in their core. _The era is young,_ Círdan's voice spoke in his head, _and I sense it will be long years and the turning of another age before you will see the Grey Havens again. Do not forget your friends. Gil-galad's star burned bright as one in a legion of our vast empyrean. _


	9. Rivalry

**9: Rivalry **

Thranduil: most elusive character I've tried to write about so far and he's not even really IN this story. All I know about him is that his name is ridiculously fun to say. Nevertheless, here we go. Holy crap, super busy weekend and no free time, yay!

Genre: Too dinky for its own good. Rating: Indecently foreshortened, but K.

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_T.A 4._

_April_

"That could have gone better," grumbled Erestor, Elrond's counselor, coming into the Hall of Fire after having seen the Greenwood elves off.

"It could have gone worse," Elrond responded. "_Much _worse."

"How? Thranduil and his company are more pigheaded than – "

"Pigheaded? They ask for little, on the whole, I think. Compared to some."

Erestor could only glower. Elrond regretted that he'd had other matters to attend to this evening and hadn't been able to personally wish Thranduil's company a safe journey, but usually Erestor was a fair well-wisher in his place. Despite his calm words, Elrond did feel a certain peace settle his heart, however, with the knowledge that the Silvans had left. He liked Thranduil, he really did. They got on rather well, considering their backgrounds, though it had taken time and patience to build the relationship – they had known each other since they were quite young.

Things were well in the lands under Elrond's lordship. Imladris had succeeded in becoming a place of healing for those still haunted by the shadow of what had happened at The Battle of the Alliance. They were on good terms with the dwarves. The mountains above their dwellings were, for the moment at least, sparse of goblins and other evils. The daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel had recently caught his eye and he had a feeling he'd caught hers as well. The beech and maple trees were budding, draping the canopy above their heads with a light, fresh green, and the ground responded happily by sending up its yellow lilies and blue irises to wink up at the branches. And this business with Thranduil; Elrond could hardly believe how well it had gone.

Thranduil's father Oropher had always had very specific notions of how things should go between the Greenwood elves and the Noldor, and Thranduil had picked up a handful of these notions as well. Thranduil had, however, the benefit of having lived through the great war. Anybody to have had such an experience behind them was likely, Elrond knew, to have adopted a bit of a wider horizon of perspective, and this seemed to show with Thranduil. He had come with some of his elves to Imladris to make some requests and negotiate some terms. Elrond and his counselors had agreed to some of them. Others they had decided not to budge on, after civil discussion. Thranduil, not having gained everything he'd come for, was unperturbed and had left after a friendly handshake and a genial smile.

Now the night was pulling its cover over the sky and the flowers were closing up, and the silver velvet on the skins of buds would catch the moonlight soon. Elrond bid Erestor goodnight, knowing that the dark elf liked to spend his nights in quiet contemplation along the paths between oaks and spruce. No doubt this is where he gained much of the wisdom that had led Elrond to choose him as his chief counselor. Elrond found it easy to trust the judgment of one who spent more time listening to what rushes and ripples knew than judging the actions of others through voids.

Elrond would not be walking beneath tonight's constellations, though. Celeborn and Galadriel were now journeying towards Imladris with their daughter, and would be arriving with the morning stars. There were a handful of tasks yet to do to make the place as presentable as possible, though he knew it was already remarkable to most eyes. He himself, however, could use some improvement. The council robes were fine and such but quite unremarkable. He had had little occasion as of late to wear something nicer.

His hope chest, which he had asked Círdan to send along in a caravan two years before, was now safely positioned in the hallway of his personal quarters. Somewhere in there he had ferreted away a tunic that had been given to him by one of Gil-galad's very well-off friends, short years before the last battle. He had never worn it, for fear that his life had been too rough for its fine weaving. The fabric had been dyed saffron and banded across the sleeves and hems with the colors of spring, and embroidery curled around the collar and down the front stitching like warm wind come alive through the hands of the artist.

Elrond opened his hope chest, sifted through the contents, and to his despair found that his nice tunic was missing. He was not surprised, but he was nevertheless somewhat dismayed.

"It was _just _here…" he muttered. He had wondered how he would present himself when the lord and ladies came by, and had checked in his chest to make sure the tunic hadn't become moth-eaten. It had been in fine form. It was as if merely having looked at it had caused it to vanish. _Just my luck_, he thought, and sighed. He should have expected. He should have been prepared for this. He had other things to wear, and was not worried with how he would present himself, but he was beginning to suspect that his peculiar relationship with tunics was more than mere coincidence. Was a higher being trying to make a point? Perhaps vengeful spirits had chosen to haunt his vestments for the rest of his days.

Spirits dampened only slightly, he picked out some nice enough clothing, and spent the rest of the night and into the early hours making sure the kitchens were in order, biscuits were in the oven, and a low fire was cheering the heart of his house, where the spring sun had not yet been able to throw its warmth. When the morning stars in the east shone bright with the reflection of the coming day, he went out to a balcony to watch the paths, and was joined by Erestor, whose mind had calmed.

"You are aggravated," the counselor said.

"I am dwelling on my inability to control the fate of my own clothing."

"Did you ruin another tunic?" Erestor asked, amusement playing about his face.

"I did not _ruin_ it, I have… misplaced it. I _must _have." The morning stars were out in full swing now. Any moment, Celebrían would come round the path, throwing an aura of moonlight into the air around her.

"No doubt it was your best tunic," said Erestor casually.

"Yes… my hope is that it still _is_ my best tunic. I cannot imagine it has been destroyed."

"You choose this occasion, the coming of the lord and lady of Lórien, to look your best? Have you not been in many other worthy occasions, meetings with royals and crowning ceremonies?"

"If you think my intention is to hide my fancy for Celebrían, you are mistaken," Elrond said, and failed to smother a smile.

"You are right, my lord," Erestor laughed. "I am always surprised to remember that you are not the bashful elf. What was it that this lost tunic of yours held over all others?"

"Oh, trivial things. It was a peculiar shade of flaxen gold that has always reminded me of the early morning sun over the waves on the shores of London. The trimwork was rather nice."

Erestor's smile froze on his face and he stared sideways at Elrond for a moment. Elrond paused in his thoughts and stared back at his companion.

"What?"

"Do you know," Erestor said, carefully, "Thranduil was wearing such a tunic upon embarking last night. You were not around to see."

Elrond closed his eyes against irritation.

"With runic embroidery down the front?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"Oh, Thranduil, my friend," Elrond muttered, and braced his elbows against the railing to lean his forehead into his hands.

"He stole your tunic?" Erestor asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

"He may have, yes."

"I _told _you he was a mischievous little gnome."

"I would have you refrain from calling him a _little gnome_, but I do not believe I have ever doubted that he was _mischievous._" The Sinda lord had been content to leave Imladris without any more discussion, but only after having gotten the last laugh. This echoed of the antics they had brought upon one another in their youth. It had started with Oropher's words to his son, centuries ago, telling Thranduil that the half-elven were inferior in strength and wits, and having Noldor blood only made things worse. Young Thranduil had enthusiastically related the news to young Elrond – as often as possible – even after it had become apparent that this was simply not true. Elrond had eventually gotten the notion that stealing Thranduil's best tunic and wearing it about might be a decent sort of retaliation. Elrond did steal the tunic and Thranduil had not had the guts to tell anyone that the finery that the little half-elf was boasting of was not even his. The fun had not lasted long, as Elrond had managed to get the tunic caught on a sharp rock after having fallen into a stream, chasing a fish. The tunic was ruined, and this, Elrond now realized, was quite possibly the first incident of what had become an almost annual involuntary tradition for him.

"I will send riders after him, if you wish, my lord, to reclaim it. Perhaps he would trade for an old circlet," Erestor said, half-joking.

"No, no…" Elrond sighed, and pried a smile back into his features. "Assuredly, I deserved that. But if you would do one thing for me."

"Yes, lord Elrond."

"Find me a locksmith. My hope chest has waited long enough."

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_A/N: Don't worry, Thranduil fans! My intention with the character of Thranduil is to create a playful sort of rivalry with just a touch of good-natured malice, _not_ to turn Legolas's dad into an unappealing Grinch-monster. _


	10. Warnings

**10. Warnings**

This occurs immediately following the previous chapter. Concentrated ill fate for the tunics!

Genre: Horror (the kind that comes from in-laws). Rating: K

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_T.A 4_

_April _

Galadriel, hair catching the light like the buds on the trees, led the party of Lórien elves through the early hours into Imladris. Celeborn followed close behind, and next to him walked Celebrían, and Elrond found it very difficult to focus his gaze respectfully upon Galadriel instead of her daughter. Had they known that the awakening hours brought out the height of beauty in their daughter? Were they purposefully making this difficult for him?

Their meeting was cordial, and Elrond soon had them ushered into the Fire Hall for refreshments and light discussion. Celebrían was listening to him quite intently and her iris eyes were making his mind wander off of whatever was being said or whatever he was talking about and it took some effort to stay in the moment. Elrond came to tell them about his recent meeting with Thranduil and the Silvans. A smile came across Galadriel's lips and Elrond's nerves were immediately set humming. When Galadriel smiled like that, something was afoot. The way she looked at him sideways sent chills across his shoulders, and not the good sort of chills.

_Your robes_, she spoke in his mind, and he shivered again. _Not what you had intended on wearing to this meeting, Lord Elrond._

_ No, my lady,_ he responded, realizing that she had picked up on the little irritation with Thranduil that still haunted a corner of his mind, and also slightly nervous that she had access to his mind while he was in the presence of Celebrían. _I'm afraid it was recently misappropriated. _

He was thankful when Erestor knocked lightly on the doorway and shared the news with Elrond that the one with locksmithing abilities was at the moment employing his talents as the Ferrier of Imladris and would be unavailable until the following morning. Elrond felt Galadriel withdraw her connection with his mind as her attentions shifted to Erestor and the news.

"You have need of lockwork?" asked Celeborn curiously. "Here in Imladris?"

"I would not bother, but my hope chest has on three occasions now been assumed to be public domain. I would rather not loose any more clothing to this mistake."

"You have a hope chest?" Celebrían asked. Elrond was routinely forgetting that hope chests were generally reserved as the property of women and their dreams of future relationships. He smiled.

"Yes, it was my mother's. Most of her possessions were lost after she fled to the sea, but this one survived. My brother Elros had it in his kingdom until his death, after which he had it willed to me. A silly thing, perhaps. But it is beautiful, and one of the few material things I have left to remind me of my mother."

"It must be quite intricately carved," Celeborn said.

"Yes."

"May we see it?" Elrond forced his eyebrow, which had been threatening to crawl up his forehead, to stay level. A strange request but not one he could deny. He stood.

"Of course, my lord. This way. It is in the hall of my entry." He led the way out of the Hall of Fire and Celeborn followed. Elrond glanced back but once, and saw Galadriel behind her husband, with that smile back on her face, and Celebrían beside her. Celebrían was watching her father with perplexity. After a short walk they came to the hall and turned into the door, and Elrond stood in front of the carved chest.

"I thought so," Celeborn said, and knelt next to the piece. His fair hand traced the relief of leaves and vines that crawled up from the feet. "I believe I knew this craftsman. He was quite famous, his name was Aldarist." Behind them, Celebrían made a noise of recognition. Celeborn continued: "The best, really, of all craftsman known to the high elves at the time. He had this very distinct way of rendering hard woods without them cracking, and being able to flute in the edges of curves, such as with these leaves," Celeborn said, indicating the embellishments on the inside of the legs and along the bottom edges.

"I did not know of the craftsman," Elrond said.

"After your parents left," Celeborn said, standing and hefting open the lid of the chest to look at the interior, "Aldarist traveled away and came to be staying not far from where we were. He was around for quite a time; a good heart he had." Elrond was once again trying to keep his eyebrows under control. Of course Celeborn was his elder and wiser, and also the father of someone he had interest in, but it still irked Elrond to have someone else shuffling around in the contents of his chest, without having asked permission. Celeborn did not appear to be examining the chest itself anymore; he was sifting neatly through the best of Elrond's clothing, which he had been keeping stored away because he had not, up until now, had much need of them.

"Aldarist was around when Celebrían joined us," Celeborn continued. Elrond looked to Celebrían, who smiled but otherwise looked perplexed by her father's actions. She shrugged at Elrond, over her mother's shoulder. "He would carve small toys for her, and some furniture. He was a good role model. You enjoyed your time with him, did you not, my daughter?"

"I did, yes," Celebrían replied, and Elrond saw that a sadness had fallen about her. As he watched Celeborn pull out one of his tunics and hold it up to regard it, he wished strongly that the lord would come to the point of his actions and words. The situation had become slightly more surreal than Elrond had been prepared for.

"In the same year that Annatar, curse his name, introduced himself to Celebrimbor, our friend Aldarist was murdered on our doorstep."

Elrond blinked at the sudden change in tone. He steeled himself for whatever the lord was intending. The tunic Celeborn now held in both hands was one Elrond probably never would have worn again – it was a leftover ceremonial tunic that sported the colors of the late Kingdom under Gil-galad.

"Celebrían was the first to find the body," the lord continued. Elrond saw Celebrían lower her eyes with the memory. "It was terrible. For her and for us, and no doubt for kind Aldarist. His tunic was simply _mangled_." With the word, Celeborn stared intently at Elrond's old tunic and gripped it in his fists, as if loosing himself in the memory. "That moment heralded shadows, and increasing darkness that did not lift until four years ago. It was no place or time in which to raise a daughter. Galadriel used her gift to weave protection around our realm to the best of her abilities, to catch anything that meant harm to our kingdom, and especially to Celebrían. We had everything attempt to enter; wolves, orcs, goblins, Easterlings… even trolls once. But Galadriel had woven a strong net. I went to meet anything tainted with shadow and cast it back from our realm, bound tight with the abrasive weft of Galadriel's command. Early on, evil men once found a pass into the mighty trees, meaning to find our daughter and hold her for their advantage. I turned them around with despair hung round their necks and their lives ran dry of joy," he said, his penetrating gaze never leaving the tunic. "All who came into their presence were driven back by their misery, and they were left alone to parch."

The lord stopped and closed his eyes. Galadriel was no longer smiling, but her eyes still betrayed something of amusement. The sadness that Celebrían had shown with the mention of Aldarist remained only in an echo and now she watched her father with interest.

Celeborn looked back up, as if coming out of a reverie. He smiled a small smile.

"A gift of history for your chest here," he said dismissively. "I did not mean to take up so much of your schedule. Let us meet again for our next meal."

"I would be honored, Lord Celeborn," Elrond replied, and bowed his head. Celeborn smiled and handed the tunic to Elrond, which Elrond initially found strange – why would he not have simply dropped it back into the hope chest? Elrond took the tunic and bowed as the three of them went back out the hall and the sound of their footsteps chased away into the morning sun.

_What a strange interchange_, Elrond mused, before moving to return the tunic back to the hope chest.

Quite suddenly, pungent despair bit down on his fingertips, shot up his arms, and groped against his heart. He dropped the tunic in shock, and stared down at it, blood pounding.

The despair flowed out of his fingertips as easily as it had entered. His heart slowed.

He took the tunic between thumb and forefinger and lifted it, but dropped it immediately, as the same awful depression started to seep back into his system.

Elrond stared at it, settled in an awful little heap on the wood floor. Fleetingly, he wondered if he shouldn't put it on something less porous, so that the evil now seeping from its seams would not taint the wood surface, but he canceled the thought. It was silly to be worrying about bad feelings leaking from a piece of clothing and staining the floor. No, what he should _really _be worrying about, he decided, was where in the world he was going to bury the wretched thing.

Celeborn had cursed it in a bad way. Understanding dawned on Elrond and he realized why the story of Aldarist had come out right then, and why Celeborn had acted this way. The lord had, of course, picked up on warm feelings between Elrond and Celebrían, and had wanted to make it quite clear to Elrond what happened to anything, or anyone, who would harm his daughter.

An effective threat, if unnecessary, but Elrond was sure that if he himself were ever to be a father, no precaution would be too strict to ensure the safety and happiness of his daughter.

Elrond skewered the tunic on a fire poker, furtively retrieved a shovel from the garden shed, and started off on what he knew would be a long hike downriver. He carried the surrendered shirt to the bottom of the valley, where nobody might chance dig it up, and buried it deep in the loam and silt, barred from the surface under root and stone. Once the ground had been put back in order above the hole, Elrond washed his hands in the cool running water, scraped off the shovel, and listened for a while for the birds and winds that occupied the valley. Then he steeled himself to face Lord Celeborn again for lunch, and turned and went back up the trail towards Imladris.

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_A/N: This may be the most obscure of these stories, I hope you found the storyline understandable!_


	11. Son of a Sinda

**11: Son of a Sinda**

An idea suggested by **Greenleaf's Daughter** (thanks so much!), and twisted about in a strange sort of fashion. HOLY CRAP I feel like I've been writing about tunic demises **forever**.

Genre: Family. Rating: K.

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_T.A 491_

_March_

This particular adventure started in one of the unlikeliest of places. Thranduil's realm in Greenwood the Great was, in Elrond's experience, generally a merry sort of establishment, though this was difficult to see through the eyes of a traveler, who at first would regard the underground dwelling as some sort of mausoleum, or perhaps a bunker. It wasn't as if merry things were not usually happening around the grounds and through the halls – these _were _elves, after all, and they enjoyed dancing, singing, and the craft arts as much as any other of their kin, and enjoyed drinking perhaps even more so, due to their close trade association with the men down the river to the east. A traveler must first be granted access to the great underground halls – which was a challenge unto itself, as King Thranduil of Greenwood was gravely protective of his lands and people – and then a traveler must see past the gloom of the place to realize the inward gaiety. Well-lit it was not, at least to non-elven eyes.

Elrond was no stranger to the halls of Greenwood, and had spent many a jovial night in the company of Thranduil, which he'd found was the easiest way to be in the company of Thranduil. Therefore it was always somewhat of a shock to travel to Greenwood, pass straight through the perpetual festivities and come finally into the heart of the cavern system, the Council Room, where Thranduil would leave every speck of his blithesome temperament at the door and would instead don the character of his father Oropher, who had been unendingly grave, somber as the north side of a mountain.

In all, with its unembellished stone walls, imposing oaken desk and lonely candelabras, Elrond would never have expected any sort of excitement to spring from the murk of the Council Room of Greenwood. If it weren't for the fact that Elrond was well-accustomed to dreadfully boring yet absolutely necessary discussions of this and that (having been the catalyst for many such discussions himself), he was sure his energy and wits would have flagged to dust by now, after having spent long hours already, going back and forth with Thranduil on the topic of the possible further cultural deviation between Imladris and Greenwood because of tariffs and taxes Thranduil had been thinking about afflicting upon the men of Dale.

"Let me show you," Thranduil was saying, "my comparisons between their trade income and our requirements over the last century." Elrond followed him obediently to the dismal little chart cabinet, and watched as Thranduil drew open a drawer. "You recall the ratios I showed you earlier, between our… this is not the right drawer, is it…"

"Yes, I recall the ratios," Elrond said, as Thranduil opened the next drawer up.

"Then I trust you will see the logic of my argument when you compare them with these. My scribe put these numbers down not a month after the men of Dale started to limit their river usage, but you can see already that..." Thranduil's explanation trailed off as a little leaf of paper fell from atop the stack of documents he'd taken out. Thranduil, distracted, bent to retrieve it, and continued. "… you can see already that our rates will suffer in no time if we do not…"

Thranduil stopped talking as he examined the leaf of paper. Elrond watched his eyes scour over the sloppy script, and then the Sinda lord's face morphed from serene wisdom into mounting disbelief. After reading the note he cast the other documents aside and pressed his fingers into his eye sockets, and sighed.

"Son of mine," Thranduil mumbled, and shook his head. "I have raised a fool."

"What is the matter?" asked Elrond, and in reply Thranduil handed Elrond the note.

_Father,_

_ It is mean that you do not want to help the Men of Gondor from the bad Easterlings that are attacking them right now. I am going to help the Men of Gondor by myself because I do not want them to feel like elves do not care. I know you will not be happy with me but I cleaned my quarters before I left and Teasil said she would take care of the dogs while I am away. Do not be worried for my safety, you know that I am a skilled bow user. I will come back in a week or two after we have defeated the Easterlings._

_ Your son, Legolas_

_ P.S and also I left this note in your special drawer because I did not want you to find it too soon and come after me because I know that you would._

"A fool, perhaps, but you have also raised a great heart," said Elrond, who was, despite himself, rather charmed by the little elf's intentions. He handed the letter back to Thranduil. Legolas's father scowled.

"A great heart, yes, and already an admirable archer, but he measures nigh over the height of my elbows and would make a neat meal for any number of foul beasts that roam southern Greenwood. Not to mention what would happen should he actually manage to encounter a troupe of Easterlings." Thranduil made for the exit, Elrond close on his heels.

"But what will you do?" asked Elrond.

"He cannot be far," Thranduil answered, quickly making for the surface. "I saw him but yesterday. Thankfully he underestimates the amount of time I spend in the Council Room. I will send out several parties; one up the river branch and over the mountains, one west to the Great River, and one east around the mountains, in case he is as directionally challenged as I fear. He has not ventured alone very far from my realm before, he may end up somewhere surprising."

"Let me help."

Thranduil did not stop, but glanced behind him as he moved, fixing Elrond with a penetrating gaze. It was fleeting, and the lord of the woods had turned back around in half a moment.

"I would be grateful," he replied, finally. Somehow, Legolas had avoided completely any of the trivial rivalry that his father showed towards the Noldor lord, and had always seen Elrond as more of an uncle, much to Thranduil's everlasting chagrin. Elrond went to gather his travel bag, which had among other things a few medical supplies that he dearly hoped he would not be needing, as Thranduil barked out orders for the elves and some cavalry to be assembled. Soon Thranduil had sent them off in myriad directions, and had himself chosen to go on foot through the early spring growth, so as to track better. They started off up the river branch, towards the mountains.

Thranduil told Elrond that he had chosen this path because he himself would have done so, and if the schematic beliefs of the lord and his son differed somewhat, their sense of stubborn independence at least were close to identical, which led Thranduil to believe that he could sense the direction Legolas had gone. It came as little surprise when Elrond first found small signs that a two-legged creature had passed this way, not so very long ago. Gently bruised leaves of young grass, brushed south along the river, and near-imperceptible dents in the ice-laced mud between boulders gave Thranduil a visible sense of relief. Elrond, having been through similar circumstances with his twin sons, could empathize with Thranduil, though wasn't about to openly say so. He had a feeling nothing ill would befall the little elf because of this.

Despite the lack of bad feelings Elrond initially felt, anxiety still managed to bubble into his spirit as they neared the falls up the side of the mountain. Here the river rushed swiftly, newly freed of its frozen state, combing its white and flowing locks between boulders that rose like fangs from the water. The banks were steep – in some places vertical – and the ledges were slick with a thin film of freezing spray. Elrond knew Legolas was sure of foot but the little elf had not yet gained the full benefit of coordination.

"We gain on him," said Thranduil, examining the footprints of dislodged pebbles, and how the moisture in the air had settled the recently exposed soil. "I do wish he had had the sense not to tread so near the edge, though." Thranduil and Elrond cast their glances briefly over the edge; the drop was not deathly far, but the stop at the end might be. The water ran deep and boulder edges had not yet been worn smooth by time.

At this point Elrond began to think that Legolas could not be far at all, for truly the tracks must have been made not moments before. He started to wonder what sort of character Legolas would grow up to be, if he was already so strong-minded, and this was about the time that they both, over the roar of the river, heard a curious wailing noise, coming from upstream a ways.

They froze and fixed their eyes on the ledges ahead of them. The banks of the river became less severe not far up, and even afforded a way down to the water, if one were careful.

It did not look as if the little elf who now came bolting out of the woods was going to be employing care in any sense of the word.

"Legolas!" Thranduil bellowed, attempting to get his son's attention. Legolas, however, seemed to be focused on one thing only, and that was getting into the water in the hastiest manner possible. The two elf lords were dashing up the bank and Elrond had not a clue as to what Legolas was thinking until another form burst from the brush after the little elf, snorting and bristling. Wild pigs, though usually not included on the list of things to avoid in Greenwood, were still entitled to such a spot. Their ferocity was rivaled by few creatures.

Legolas tripped down the rocky shores and stumbled into the water up to his knees before whirling around, whipping an arrow from his quiver, and nocking it to his bow. The pig seemed as if it were considering following its target into the water, but at that moment it noticed the rapid approach of Elrond and Thranduil. Legolas shot the arrow, which hit the creature in the chest but penetrated very shallow, due to the close range, the thick hide, and the bow having a rather weak draw. Thranduil called out to Legolas again and Legolas, startled, whipped around in an adrenaline-induced caper, slipped, was pulled towards the heart of the river, and fell beneath the water. Elrond and Thranduil were still downstream of Legolas, and Thranduil now plunged into the river next to them to catch his passing son before the child was swept away.

The next few moments passed in what could be described as a serene blur, behind Elrond's eyes. It seemed easy, too easy, to slip back into the mindset particular to dealing with emergencies, as on the battlefield. Without a thought he had whipped his hunting knife straight into the wild pig's neck as it had begun a charge towards him. He registered that Thranduil had gotten a hold of the floundering Legolas, and that both of them were being drawn into a rushing channel of water that was split not three meters down by a boulder with an up-facing cloven edge.

There was no time to stop the inevitable, and Elrond did not watch as Thranduil hit the obstacle, but instead ran down the banks and found himself standing in water – how he had made it safely down he would not be able to recall. He braced himself against one of the shallower boulders and, reaching, caught Thranduil under one arm (both of the Sinda's arms were occupied with Legolas), and hauled them in towards the banks. Thranduil tossed Legolas forward onto the rocks first, and Elrond and himself followed, pushing the child ahead of them up the steep ledge.

Thranduil immediately knelt by his son, who was on his back in a fit of coughs, and put his hands on Legolas's shoulders.

"Are you alright?" Thranduil asked anxiously. "Are you harmed?"

"No," Legolas managed, "I am fine."

"Did the wild pig hit you? Were you attacked?"

"Really, I am well," Legolas insisted, regaining his breath, but his father continued to fuss, first checking his pupils and then searching for any head wounds.

"Did you hit any sharp rocks when you fell into the water?"

"No!"

"Are you chilled?"

Legolas merely groaned in response, and rolled his eyes a bit. Elrond could see that the child was not harmed, but the meltwater and the coming dark would soon bring freezing winds. They would be alright, but they would have to move. Thranduil's tunic had been shredded down the side by his violent run-in with the river boulder, and now the wet fabric clung in strips to the lord's skin, useless against the cold and none too lordly. Elrond had no doubt that there were bruises, possibly lacerations, beneath the damage to the cloth, but he knew Thranduil well enough to know that the lord of the Greenwood would not allow himself to be treated by Elrond, except under dire circumstances. Whatever harm had been done was not serious.

"My lord Thranduil," said Elrond, in the most respectful tone he could muster. Thranduil turned to look up at Elrond, and Elrond was heartened by the happy relief in his eyes to have gained his son back safely. "You are both soaked with meltwater, and night will fall soon. Your tunic is ruined and will afford no protection from wind. I carry in my pack a cloak, and an extra tunic. Perhaps Legolas would like the cloak for the journey back."

Thranduil hesitated for but a moment before nodding and accepting the proffered garments. Elrond handed his extra tunic over along with the cloak, knowing that Thranduil would never _ask_ for the extra tunic, but no words were exchanged, which saved both of them the trouble of having to bicker about the indecency of Noldors and Sindars voluntarily sharing garb. As Elrond helped Legolas fasten the cloak around his thin frame, Thranduil peeled the remnants of his own tunic off and drew Elrond's dry one over his head.

"Do you usually gallivant about," Thranduil said, pulling the collar closed, "with an extra tunic? This seems a strange practice."

"To each their own," Elrond replied. "Some carry pipes, some carry whetting stones, depending on their professions and personalities. I have learned to carry extra tunics."

"I hope that you do not expect to be seeing this tunic again," the Sinda said with a smirk, and they started back North, down the slope.

"No, my friend. I seem to recall that you rather enjoy holding on to my tunics."

"Take it as a compliment."

Elrond glanced at Thranduil, who was in turn glancing at him. Something else Elrond was sure he would never witness was Thranduil verbally thanking him for something, and Thranduil's mouth was shut stubbornly now. However, gratefulness is easily passed through the eyes, and is all the more genuine for having been conveyed with silent emotion. Elrond smiled in return for Thranduil's thanks, and turned his gaze ahead again. Thranduil did have a tendency to hoard things, which Elrond was never happy to see, least of all in an elf, and he in fact a little sorry to see another tunic go by the wayside. _On the bright side_, he thought, _perhaps this funny little incident will render our interactions to be based less on schematics and more on trust. A wishful thought indeed._

"Do they have wild pigs in Gondor?" asked Legolas, breaking Elrond out of his thoughts.

"I do not believe they do," responded Thranduil.

"Will the Easterlings cross by Greenwood?"

"Some of them might."

"The wild pigs could attack them then."

"That they could, my son. That they could."

They made it back to the lord's realm in good time, and neither Elrond nor Thranduil were given a moment of silence with which to contemplate their own interactions and politics, for Legolas filled the air by ticking off reason after reason of why Gondor should be able to hold their own against Easterlings. Most of what the child said was nonsensical, but it all came from one who was pure of heart. Legolas, with such clarity of spirit and no perceptible malice to any of the Free People, least of all any other race of Elves, had to have learned such mannerisms from _somewhere_.

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_A/N: One more tunic to go! Whoever can guess how it will go will get a... well, nevermind. Nobody would guess it anyway. ;D  
_


	12. Nice Things

**12: Nice Things**

YES! I _never _finish what I start, but here is the last of twelve stories written in thirteen days, to wrap up the whole tunic saga! Thank you **SerenLyall **for the whole idea! Good wishes to everyone during their wintertime festivities and shenanigans!

Genre: Romance, fluff, and Bombadillian silliness. Rating: K

* * *

_T.A 2459_

_Eve of the Winter Solstice_

"Are all of the biscuits done?" Celebrían asked.

"Yes, Elladan is pulling the last of them out right now," Elrond replied. "We have the right number of chairs?"

"Yes, and the feastware is being set out too."

"All of the bonfires are being tended?"

"All of the bonfires and luminaries."

"And we are not running to and fro in a panic to get ready for the feast…. Either we're forgetting something or we're getting good at this," Elrond said, smiling at his wife. Celebrían returned with a smirk, and looked him up and down.

"You haven't forgotten to change into your nice clothing, have you?"

"Of course not! The tunic your mother gave me has been washed and is hanging out by the fires to dry." In truth, Elrond had forgotten that he was still wearing a plain woolen shirt and surcoat and he knew Celebrían knew that he'd forgotten, but she simply smiled at him.

"If anything happens to that tunic, husband of mine, you know my father will not be happy. That piece took them ages to put together." Elrond had been surprised it had not taken them longer than it had. The gold and garnet embroidery was like nothing he had ever seen – even on Gil-galad's fine vestments.

"I would sooner fear the wrath of your mother than your father, and that is indeed saying something… but it is in no danger right now. I'm not even wearing it. When _are _your parents arriving, by the way?" he asked, going to the window of their chambers and gazing down on the preparations below.

"Soon, I think," said Celebrían. "I am surprised they have not come sooner. They were happy to hear that Iarwain Ben-adar would be joining us at the feast this year. I imagine they have much to talk about."

"Iarwain is also later than I would have expected," mused Elrond. "Then again there is quite a bit of snow off towards his forest."

"What is it they call him out there? The men and hobbits?"

"The men and hobbits call him Tom Bombadil," Elrond replied, and the name sent him smiling again, and Celebrían as well. She edged closer to him to twine her arm around his, and rest her head against his shoulder. They watched Imladris below as it prepared for the coming feast: cooks dashing about with ingredients and utensils, going between the kitchens and the root cellars; the young ones setting out the ice luminaries that they had made over the course of weeks; Glorfindel passed by, headed for the stables to ready one of the sleighs. The euphony of harps and flutes played with the wind as the musicians tuned and straightened notes.

"Elrond, go get your tunic now," Celebrían said suddenly. "No doubt it is dry. Take it in so it can warm up before you have to put it on."

"A wise idea. Where will you go?"

"Down to light the luminaries. You know how my parents love to see the luminaries when they arrive."

Elrond took the stone-cut stairs down towards the gardens and headed for the bonfire near which he had hung the decorated tunic. Halfway there a sort of rollicking waterfall of hoots came to his ears from near the pavilions, and he recognized the laugh of Iarwain. So the forest man had arrived without his noticing. Elvish voices replied in laughter and words and Elrond told himself that after he took his tunic inside, he would find Iarwain – not a challenging task – to give him a proper welcome. He came to the bonfire clearing and saw Iarwain's pony, lounging near the rails. No doubt it had not been an easy journey through the snow; Elrond made a mental note to be sure to give Iarwain some fresh vegetables for his pony.

The mental note was immediately forgotten as his eyes settled on the rack next to the fire. Empty. His tunic was gone.

Calmly, he sized up the situation.

Had it caught fire? No, he had taken very special care not to put it so close as to endanger it. The rack was much too far away. Besides, the wooden poles would have caught fire as well.

Today the wind was gentle, and could not have been the mirthful hand behind his tunic's disappearance.

Had someone stolen it? He dropped the thought as soon as he'd picked it up. Such a thing would not happen in Imladris, at least not on purpose. A flustered elf rushing about in pre-feast preparations may have mistaken it for theirs, he supposed.

Puzzled, he considered the ground beneath his feet, as if searching for answers there. The snow had been trampled by many passing feet – even elvish steps would eventually wear down on snow. The white blanket was especially punctuated by U shaped prints that came round the side of the bonfire and…

Elrond narrowed his eyes at the prints. He followed them away from the drying rack and over to where Iarwain's pony stood.

"Fatty Lumpkin," Elrond said, coming around to stand in front of the pony. The creature's ears perked up, and Elrond held out his hands for the pony to nuzzle. The elves tended to call any of Iarwain's ponies by the name _Tûgfëa, _Wide-Spirit, but they never responded, preferring the names that Iarwain himself had given them. Maeras his ponies were not, but still they had about them a strangely cunning aura.

"Did you have a good journey?" he asked Lumpkin. "Was the snow very deep?"

Lumpkin snorted and tossed his head, showing his unconcern for the weather.

"I do not suppose you mind the snow and cold so much," Elrond said, and stroked the pony between the eyes, "what with your considerable winter coat." Indeed, the creature's grey-brown fur had gotten shaggy in the winter.

"I must ask you a question, my friend. My solstice tunic, given to me by my in-laws, had been hanging just around there, on the rack, and now it is absent. You have been standing near it." Elrond looked the pony in the eyes, and Lumpkin looked back under long lashes. "Would you happen to know where it has gone off to?"

Elrond could have sworn that the pony squinted his eyes in mirth. Lumpkin gave a little whinny, raised his mouth towards Elrond, and champed his teeth in a very merry fashion. Elrond turned his head slightly to look at the pony's mouth.

"It appears," Elrond said, as Lumpkin once again hung his head down in a most innocent bearing, "that you have been flossing with gold thread."

Lumpkin nickered and tossed his mane before fixing Elrond with brown marble eyes.

"Do you know, you have devoured one of my nicest possessions, yet I cannot be angry… Whatever drove you to this? It is not as if Iarwain does not feed you," Elrond said, nodding to Lumpkin's considerable girth. "I do hope you at least enjoyed it, though I cannot imagine the taste of linen and thread to be pleasant. I will have someone bring you apples and carrots, hmm? No more eating other people's garments, alright?"

Lumpkin showed his enthusiasm by bumping Elrond affectionately in the chest and pawing the ground.

Elrond stopped in the kitchens on the way up to his rooms, and asked someone to bring a gift to Iarwain's pony. He then turned his mind to the mission of finding something acceptable to wear. As Celeborn and Galadriel were no doubt expecting to see him wearing the tunic they'd given him, he supposed _nothing _would be 'acceptable', but they had always been ones to appreciate fate's sense of humor, so perhaps they would not mind. He first searched his wardrobe, and, finding its contents unsatisfactory, unlocked his hope chest. He found a tunic buried near the bottom, rather plain and green, but in the season and miraculously unwrinkled.

Celebrían found him in his quarters as he put the last set of clasps together on his overtunic, and exclaimed in surprise.

"My husband, where is your tunic?"

"You would not believe it," Elrond said, "but it would seem that Iarwain's pony has eaten it." Celebrían turned her head to regard him before replying.

"How could you know that?"

"I asked him. Trust me, he ate it."

Celebrían let out a giggle of disbelief, and then fell into a fit of laughing. He smiled, and thought that if all it took to make her laugh like this was to feed his tunics to various animals, he would gladly give up all of them.

"I have not a clue as to what I will tell your parents," Elrond continued. "I cannot believe my ill luck. It is as if The One really intends for me to be running about half-naked."

"I could endorse that," Celebrían said through a grin.

"I suppose I should be grateful that it is tunics and not trousers that I keep loosing."

Celebrían came up to him and draped her arms about his shoulders, and he put his hands about her hips, and bent to rest his forehead against hers. He sighed, and despite the laughter of his wife and the good humor of the moment, could not quell a bitterness in his spirit. He closed his eyes.

"I just can't," he said.

"Can't what?"

"I simply can't have nice things. They never last."

"You have a nice reputation," Celebrían said, "in a nice place called Imladris surrounded by nice elves and occasionally nice people like Iarwain Ben-adar… and his pony. And you have a lot of nice robes, dear. Why don't you just start wearing more robes? Everyone else does. You look good in them."

Elrond smirked.

"You have your twin sons."

"I said _nice _things…"

"You have a lovely daughter," Celebrían said, releasing one of his shoulders and sweeping her fingers across his cheek. "She has your hair, which is also very nice," she said, and brushed one of his braids behind his ear, which she knew always made his spine soften.

"I have you," he murmured.

"And you always will."

"I love you."

"I know," she whispered.

"Goodness," said a voice in the doorway. "I see I am interrupting." Both Elrond and Celebrían shared one more smile and turned in tandem to face Celeborn and Galadriel. The two elves of Lórien certainly knew how to pass by without being noticed, even by one as in-tune with his realm as Elrond. "Your guests are being seated," continued Celeborn, "and they call for a song from their lord before the revelries start. Iarwain in particular would like a song about the ships of the Grey Havens."

Elrond and Celebrían gave the Lórien elves hugs and a warm welcome before the four of them headed for the stairs that led down to the Hall of Fire. They did not comment on his garb, but Elrond could see in Galadriel's eyes that they had something of an idea of what had happened.

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_A/N: That was a fun writing adventure! Thank you for joining me._


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